Gentling myself out of the frame, and back to: translucent witness.
My ego's playing: "making sandcastles". The sea: sweeps in, shushing smooth.
Ego me old mate, melt now into my embrace. Lets work together.
What are borders for? Are they to keep others out? Or keep egos in?
My ego would stitch past and future together as emperor's clothes.
The kingdom has diminished of late - contracted through over-familiarity, and the king has lost the nerve he once had in the spring, when his territory was unmapped, roads unlaid. Yet still he clings on - high shoulders stiff with entitlement, marching the perimeter, and staring over ramparts to check if the horizon is advancing. At twilight he parades his troops ... they are outwardly subservient but party in the stores at night.
My ego wants to name, tame, blame, explain, claim fame, ... bubbles in the sea