Last Monarch

I will take the lightning
like a shot of something
clear in something clearer
after tapping it against the bar
and raising it so high against the stars.
The repeats on the radio
make the day slow
like a strand of syrup falling
from a bottle.

On the day the lights burn out,
and our whole world is left
in the wake of broken glass,
I will wait for all the hell to pass
somewhere the power lines
never made it to begin with.
Anyone who cares about matching
socks to socks has nothing better
to think about, or even worse
those better things are all
too painful.

Sometimes It feels like we are
the last monarch still to break out
of its chrysalis and extrapolate
our differences from the rest of them.
The strongest are the ones who pick
the worst fights early on and get bruises
on their eyes to match the scars.
Another pair of wings is wasted
on the passing cars, but held so perfectly
against the windshield glass
that everyone inside could get to see it.

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