1.3.22

another fool (another hill)

He is in his own world. 
Frowning with arms folded,
Sitting under a golden tree on a hill.
Gold and eternal daylight:
The brilliant limits of his heaven.

A cloud births near his head.
Out of the folds of mist
A human hand emerges,
Holding a golden chalice.
The chalice is empty.

The chalice could hold everything
He can’t begin to dream of,
Bottomless promises pouring.
When a hand pops out of a cloud,
Anything might happen.

But his futures are suspended.
The chalice hovers.
The frowning man sits.
He cannot begin to imagine
What is already impossibly real.

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