imaginary friend

History has no heart to give, and not a heart to take
it combs through the sand dunes like a snake.

Time strung out on a wash line, 

weighed down by wet blankets.
Five of ten generations fallen to knees, 

to catch the rolling heads of failed monarchies. 

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative.
The numbers anticipated it all.

Hers was not uncalculated risk.

She took tireless heed of the numbers

and counting, left no room for guesswork

 or doubting. 

Emotional coloring would be of great use

to intention. Logic got the nod. Reason

got a mention. 

The battlefield would be determined by alignment of stars.
She shared with her generals the finest Dominican cigars.
She was pathologically obsessed 

with synchronizations

 to relieve stress. 

A single number 

could send shock waves through the rest.

Kinship with her was allocated by dreams. 

Material ties was not her imperative.
They would break off on their own,

falling from the beams.

When her people protested it hurt her heart so deep.
The leaders of protest were often asleep.

She did not sanction violence, but in some cases it happened.
She allowed for proper burials 

per dictates of culture and tradition.
Any failure in that regard led to charges of sedition.

Some of the prophecies just blew her mind.
She shook her fist at time, but never cursed the divine.
She became tired and let down her guard.

Then awaited a sign. 

Pacing and racing
nights and days through the catacombs,
the last safe place from it all.

Suffering the dawn of her
eloquently stated
much anticipated
emancipation
from any and all relative life support.

I received her newswire off my cortex wall,
hundreds of years later
and I liked it.

I imagined she was my best friend
in two thousand
and ten.