I Was an Empire - 1. I Was an Empire

Not much is known about the ancient empire of Lydia,
which is to say I am free to create my own mythology.

Don’t drink the water here,
but it’s your choice if you breathe the air:
just know it’s salty enough to scrape you clean.
And if you thank me for it
I won’t give you a welcome
because I’ve had to make everything, “No problem.”

How did you stumble through my seaweeds,
up to my falling down outskirts of faded fabric timepiece?
Drop to your knees
for the first sign of land you’ve seen in days.
In the middle of my ocean
you can seek solace.

But sometimes you have to bite the hand that feeds you
and then get in return what you have given.
Take your medicine like a mouthful of flowers;
chew them.
If you tuck them under your tongue or
into your cheek
they’ll turn to poison,
the kind that is only fatal when you release
your grip on it,
try to ride the waves independent.

It’s not the kind of badge of honor
you can remove from your breast
and keep breathing.
You create your best art when your fingers are functioning
in time with your head,
your iron age I-beams stretching to create new heartstrings
so you can feel gently again.

I used to feel so large
it was like a hearthfire turned arson.
My own synapse citizens lit me up for the victory of taking me down.
An institution grows cold and leaves us little
but the barest branch of hope,
and I just want enough strength to keep building it up again.

Take your medicine--
like gripping the mast of a sinking ship
that may never make it back to my harbor.
You are a beating heart lighting up the darkness with each pulse
in this atrium.
Put it back in a body where it belongs again,
no longer strung out on my middleman.

Moor yourself to all that is left.
A hope chest of history
passed down mother to daughter to daughter again.
This is our birthright:
this smoldering ruin of timbers and thatch.
Lift your head like the hatch and climb up my rigging;
build a treehouse in the middle of skyscrapers
if you ever make it home again.

I never said we had to plant seeds
for anyone but ourselves.
Take your medicine
and take it again
and again.
Did you know there are consequences to breathing?
But you can call for my emergency services
when the water runs rusted,
tastes like the metal I thought about putting in my mouth,
the kind I wouldn’t have been able to spit back out.

This is a collection of my architectural menagerie,
a system of metaphor and simile
held together by heathen prayer and barefoot dancing.
Anyone can live here
if only their hearts are still beating.
It’s no problem;
you’re welcome,
as long as you didn’t expect one.
It goes down like your daily dose of medicine.