The Zenith

And what happens to the King who sat on his throne watching peasants

Bow down to his lady the crone as he sucked on the bones of the

Children he

Devoured with exhilaration, exultation, with perverse and hopeless

Excitement that poisoned the court with screaming

Fathers and filled it the brim with mothers who

Gorge themselves on

Hollow sorrow.

Inside the marble walls they scream, "What becomes of me?"

Jackals feast on the poor, that is what becomes of them, but kings?

Kings escape judgment.

Luck is what nourishes his corrupted soul.

Money and gold and goods feed a stream of unfortunate

Nobodies into his midst and down his gullet.

Oranges coat the air and mask the

Putrid scent of cannibalism.

Quaint gods make

Revolting leaders.

Solutions exist in the murky waters of change but...

There is nothing to be done, no fish to catch, no metamorphosis.

Unravelling the throne creates an unfamiliar

Violence and we love the corruption we know.

With our own cracked, bleeding, and grieving hands we put up the

Xanthic wallpaper and the bars on the windows because we

Yearn for the peak of power, we crave the

Zenith.

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This was real easy until I forgot a letter in the middle. And then again at the end. And the beginning. How'd I do that? Who knows! I swear I know my alphabet.