Lorenzo Buford
The throne on my head is empty.
I use to ride the chairs with my lover
but we fell into spaces
between the imagined and the dreamed;
and I screamed and shattered
the only form I knew to become
forms that I did not want to know
and the throne on my head is empty.
There is no Beloved to sit upon
the one who walks the roads
until they find their path back
to the Throne and so it is empty
of love and so above, is now below;
a throne where I sit amongst the dead
weeping for the memories.
Something fades from me
and I weep for what is forgotten.
NEXT: A Whore of the Heaven
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