Displacement of Zero

There’s no forest for exile
Any longer, no exile
At all, except within jails.

There’s no banishment without
Cameras, locks, and patrols,
No beyond, no out of doors.

Gone the forest of Rama,
Der Schwarzwald of fairytales,
The wilderness of angels.

But were such wastes ever real?
They only served the purpose
Of providing a return,

The wanderer coming home,
The exile reappearing
As hero or vengeful ghost.

The forest was just a name
For a place to park the king,
Get him there and back again.

You’re not part of that story,
Just its eager audience—
Not as you care for the king,

The wanderer, the hero,
But since you always wanted,
For yourself, to see that forest.