It Is What It Is

Devika Brendon

It’s the same way you know right away when the milk turns sour:

Something that you thought was wholesome

curdles and transforms

Like a directional vector, changing in mid air;

A spear hurled like a military drone.

And it’s the way it is, and it is the end of it.

It’s like an Emperor unfitted for his own throne

What started sweet, and shy and hopeful

Like a child fresh anointed from its bath

Is now tainted: cannot even be freshly painted

The hope at the heart of it has gone

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