Until we have a place in which to breath, live, and thrive, we are no more than dead (drifting) wood. And so to breathe life into the seahorse, whose existence facilitated reflection on empire, I had to build my own empire of sorts. One which involved the ambient light of rays filtered through the roof of a silo. In this composition, it is wind energy that triumphs over oil.
This little empire of driftwood and debris
is unconcerned with paradox or Christianity.
It sweeps and ebbs and flows
demanding just a sunburn; giving endlessly.
The beach buries the bark
from nearby woods;
bacteria bite
and burgundy blooms.
I do apologize to these
unsuspecting microscopic beasts
for any smorgasbords I may have
interrupted.
It seems that at the price of
dividing, conquering, invading, colonizing,
I have imposed upon these pagans
the benevolent dictatorship of Hippocampus.
As far as these immortalized
pixels are concerned it
would seem that I have won.
But entropy will have the last word.
