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The Palace Beneath the Sky that Bleeds Gold
There was once a young girl.
Who strode beneath a sky when it did unfurl.
She took a deep breath,
And then another.
In the beach, she saw a sea of sand.
From whence concrete is made
Out of which she could build anything,
If only she had adoring legions at her command.
The footsteps she left behind,
Reminded her of the power of her mind.
Forever stuck in the fleeting present,
The only thing at her command.
She envisioned a palatial behemoth rising from above the dunes.
Like a Leviathan, rising up into the sky.
Into a sky beaming, basking in gold divine,
A palace where she alone would reign.
If she were a princess, she would never be in want.
She would would rule over her kingdom not with an iron fist,
But with love.
Her subjects would be at her beck and call because of how fiercely they desired her company, and her approval.
Just as one’s entire world exists solely in her head,
For her to construct her own fantasy would be the same as to live it.
It could be that the entire world around her is secretly at her service—
The service of a princess who was so humbled by the love of her subjects that she left the palace, never to return, residing no in an invisible palace which follows her wherever she goes.
It could be that the crystal castle she had once inhabited simply washed away.
Or it could have floated up to the heavens.
Or she could have left it in another lifetime,
Or she could have wished it away.
It could be that the world around her is so awestruck by her regal ways that they dare never broach the topic.
It could be that nobody reminds her of her Highness because she is so humble.
Like a saint or a martyr.
She descended from the palace because she cared.
It could be that her Highness is of such a supernal type,
That she paints the world with her mind.
It could be that her palace is made from all of the smiling faces which she serves,
In her disguise as a poor peasant girl drifting on the beach.
Perhaps her crystal castles had melted into the sea,
Torn by the torrents of wind,
At the same time, she was careful never to share her fantasy with anyone.
It might be an illusion
It might be refuted if she told anyone.
They might rain on her parade.
In her dreams, anything could be true.
She was safe there.
Even if her fantasy was false.
She would rather spend her life clinging to the small possibility of its truth.
All in life is a matter of perspective.
Things looked so radically different in so many radically different lights.
If she thought a certain way while staring up at the sun,
It seemed to bleed.
All the same, perhaps she was a princess all along,
If only in metaphor, by interpreting her tangible life as such.
As the center of her own, was she not therefore its sovereign?
There was so much for her to be grateful for, after all.
Life is what you make it.