The Ether

There’s an empire forming around me,
Etched in fractured cobblestone and loosely laid bricks–
fragile enough that I contemplate the idea of a stronger foundation,
compare it to sultans of a victorious age,
then consult the textbook monarchs, seeking their silent validation.

But tonight, I wonder: is comparison the thief of joy?
As the stars vie for attention in a dust-smeared sky
while walls draw close, sinews of solemnity pressing in,
I argue that comparison is the foundational metric by which
all things are born
and live,
and die.
throwing roots in the built earth,
casting nets into a charcoal sea.

New thesis: Joy looks different the second time,
mutates into something unrecognizable the third, fourth
until by the fifth, it slips beyond grasp.
And comparison becomes the only thing left to hold.