sometimes there is no need to stray past the lines they give you,

that they paint across your face with red ochre that bleeds into your skin

like the blood of blackberries—

invisible boundaries in the name of the process and structure that form a clear whole,

that established reason and triumph and the path to success.

sometimes there is a blessing hidden in the blind order of tradition,

that most systems are placed in good measure and the earth wants you to be grounded

in moral and not subversiveness.

sometimes to sit with a closed crown atop your head and a straight line in your future brings benefit—

but never forget to be soft and not brittle or else you will be at risk of cracking like past pagan statue heads.

never forget to be soft unlike the fallen hellenistic religions,

soft unlike the blood soaked roman christians,

remembering that every empire has a ending,

and grass roots of innovation eventually shoot up through their graves to become the new beginning.

and the lines they give you will surround the lone figure, who never deviates from their iron sights,

who finds themselves sitting atop a humble throne,

raising their right hand towards the empyrean sky.