"O Absalom, my son."
To search to understand in vertigo
to run across a barren mind with a fading purple sky to your own opaque river separating
North from South; a divided kingdom.
Sobs sound across borders like the bellows of livestock that bleat longingly across a pasture.
They lament their own who crossed over the boundary. Those taken by kingship lust or crocodiles.
Those riding, captured, hung in trees, those devoured, put to pieces, leaving only red rivers behind.