A quiet gap builds between the royal pair,
a prince and a prince
with imaginary titles
in an imaginary place.
A chasm, a canyon rising from a deaf sea
swirling expired blue.
The waves churn circles,
the count of the clouds
like shadow men traipsing
by with hands kneading air.
The royal pair sense the earth-born rift
in the murmur of a heartbeat,
but the prince known it only
by the flashbang terror tightening titan fingers
over his heart.
How might he let her see the emptiness
between their dreams
if she marks her knowledge
with a cat-trapped tongue?
The prince grips the air and fights the canyon
with bulldozers of hope:
No more canyons.
No more searching through rubble.
An end to something no romantic poet could ever expose en total.
These he hopes for,
reaches out his whithered garden hands
to the faint sunbeam of his other side,
pleads with eyes swimming with twisty birds
in a free sky chirping contentment.
But she cannot see,
for the haze draws over her vision,
clouding her beloved
so that what she sees
is only a shadow
of the man she loves(ed).
He waits for the every-wizard potion
to burn through the cavern
like carrion birds in a graveyard,
to fill it with liquid sun,
make a new world from the ashes.
And he hopes only for the strength to hold on
long enough to find the world he used to know.