The Theater of the State

The golden crown sits heavy on the brow.

*

We polish icons made of gilded brass

and pretend they hold the sun captive.

*

The populace gathers in the plaza

to cheer for the man who promised

that his reign would banish the winter.

*

He stands tall,

wrapped in velvet,

boasting that the sky belongs to him

because he says so.

*

The crowd drinks the lies like nectar.

They believe the theater of the state

will provide warmth.

*

How fragile this belief

in a ruler who demands absolute fealty

while the world remains indifferent to his decree.

*

The golden crown sits heavy on the brow.

*

Years bleed into decades.

The king remains upon the seat of power,

though his face is now a roadmap

of regrets and failed harvests.

*

He looks toward the horizon

where the dark clouds gather,

praying for a sign

that he remains chosen.

*

He orders his guards

to seize any person

who speaks of decay.

*

He convinces himself

that his command holds back the storm,

ignoring the rot spreading

through the pillars of his palace.

His vanity acts as a shield against reality.

*

The golden crown sits heavy on the brow.

*

A mob storms the gates at midnight.

They tear down the banners

and shatter the marble statues

that glorified a crumbling ego.

*

The king hides in the back,

clutching a scepter

that has lost its luster.

*

He realizes the truth too late.

His authority was a ghost,

a phantom maintained by the fears

of those he governed.

*

He slumps against the old walls

as the light of his influence

fades into obscurity.

*

The metal circle falls,

clattering upon the earth,

revealing the hollow skull

beneath the ornamentation.

*

The golden crown sits heavy on the brow.