A tu, mon frere

I stand,
In that famed hallway.
Peeking into your keyhole,
Thoughts not yet born,
Of what to do.
My hands are clean.
Were clean.
Until the Gods sent you,
To look;
To judge;
To create.
A monster, in place of what was.
Which wasn’t much to begin with.
Just a fleeting though,
That seems to fly,
In the same way,
To everyone else.
So says I.
And the Eye behind the I,
That wasn’t there before.
Thanks to the prying eyes of Others,
Peeking into my soul,
Through my keyhole.
Traitorous sentry posts erupt from every synapse;
Diverted resources fund the enemy camps.
The resistance has gone home,
Hoping for a parade in the warm embrace of comfortable,
Dirty hands.

But not to them.
This is a sprint.
“I’m a king, you know”
And thus,
The hallway is but a close memory,
Of what might have been,
If it weren’t for them, of course.
Turn left,
Into reminiscence.
Repetition, maybe?
Another kehole.
Just a peek?
The same keyhole.
Mind tricks designed to keep your eyes forward,
And Up, of course.
To the stairwell, perhaps?
Suddenly aware of what isn’t,
Where it should be at least.
No exit.

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