Perhaps it says something about you,
That you were born of this place where claim is divided from claim
By sticks and barbed wire
(Or perhaps those metal stakes from the hardware store,
If you've gone into town that week.)
These are crude barriers, and flimsy enough to only deter
Those with less ambition than sense.
But make no mistake--the wounds they leave cut deep.
In reality, of course,
The sky stretches over all,
Seeing the petty fiefdoms of cattle and corn
And rendering them moot.
This, truly, is your kingdom--
But still, the stubborn fences abound.
Of course, all spikes evolve for a reason--
The cactus to avoid being eaten,
The caltrop to propagate itself far and wide,
The wire to keep out anyone but yourself.
Or perhaps it was they who fenced you into this hard-bitten patch of scrubland--
The only spires in this sunset city
Declared themselves anathema to you centuries beforehand.
But in either case, the sticks and wire remain
No matter who put them there.
Lost little king, whose crown has long been fallen,
Besieged in a ramshackle fortress all too pervious to outright assault
But that lashes out and lacerates those who simply blunder in.
All these golden slopes are yours,
And yet you wander alone.