My memory palace is corrupted,
I cannot cross, parched with nary a drop for leagues around.
The compounds have no rules to break,
No cities to save; we sell them their graves, and serve them sermons on the mound.
All this commotion,
This salty, grass-fed moonlight on the rise.
Fingerprints on legionary figures,
Worlds, look at all I have conquered, by spices, colloquialisms, and pride.
Everything love’s labors have gifted us.
Nothing, we couldn’t find; fortuna, given time.