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ImagiNation

You are my Nation,
or so I’d imagine.
Our kingdom is molded
from memories grown cold.

On winter’s fall, inspiration
licks along the castle walls.
Our words draw out
and hoist the bridge.

We are wrapped in scarlet
effigies of silken tomes.
But that’s all there is:
You are history on repeat.

Our worth is written
into abstraction, hidden
by doors closed upon
my gilded, fallen soul.

When ideas fail and bridges burn,
how can I be concrete
when words wax and wane,
muted by infinity?

To explain, I’d betray
the scourge of my heart —
my red blood retains
the answers to my anguish.

Abby Jewett 2019