The Crown

There are no kings and I will not feed this madness

With ill will, contempt, and the scraps of hatred

That's left in the rotten wood beams of my soul

Because revolt is always a mad thing, isn't it?

It's always fouled by the lies fucking the truth

Until it can't remember what its name sounded like.

I have no such issue recalling the truth of the matter

And it is that there are no kings over the grass,

No cruelty in the mouths of feeding bison or the wolves

Feasting on the remnants of their hard-earned corpse.

I'll not soon forget the truth of muddied hands,

Eyes glazed with the impossibility of avoidance.

It is my duty to remember the crown stays snapped.

Old hands, scared and trembling, covered in the blood

Of their sisters and children and families buried this

Piece of tarnished gold once and I will never be the fool

Who spat on my ticket and asked for the cursed object

To be raised by men with wolfish grins and hungry teeth.

I will remember that my trees, my soil, my soul has no king.

*************

A/N: I'd be remiss if I didn't say something about tomorrow. The poem itself I think is pretty obvious in its intent, but if you're in the United States, you've got a voice, you've got a body, and I'm encouraging you to use it peacefully. Stand up. Push back. Be safe. Be nonviolent. But be heard.

Below takes you to a site where you can find all the protests lined up.