Kingdom Come

And your kingdom come is mine left undone. Like oil against water, a ladder with black cat, is this passion or an anxiety attack? Vampiric pale skin craves darkness in spades, homophones trick spellings, “…she cleans to impress the maid”, and your kingdom come shimmers where mine will fade. One man’s rubbish is to black magpie treasure shining white, through moss, mulch and mud sows snuffle truffles, a tempting bite. Your kingdom come sees mine as blemish and blight: when I wake in the morning and wish it be night, content in loneliness but hope still for someone in sight. Your kingdom found became my kingdom dropped, even these rhyming jigsaws don’t always fit my refrain. Your kingdom come and kingdom arrived and kingdom gold your kingdom brave and kingdom holy and kingdom bold, is foil for my kingdom came and kingdom went and kingdom past my kingdom old and kingdom rusted and kingdom last. Your kingdom come is nothing like mine - left undone. Or maybe, your kingdom come is mine fatigued and just… done. “…don’t fear the reaper,” he said, and I don’t. Why would I?