Tuesday, August 30, 2016

peasants can never be kings

there is a man poking you with a stick,
obnoxiously prodding and jabbing,
it begins to feel more like a sword,
the irritation consumes you as he stabs,
you stand up to confront him,
but see no sword, no stick- in fact,
he isn't even aware you

so what was stabbing at you?
the confusion invites anger,
his presence alone becomes
daggers to eyes, acid to eardrums,
the idea of him ignoring you is overwhelming
as you look down from your throne,
he has no place in your court
and is cast into the dungeon

you prefer him there, where he is isolated,
you feel more tranquil in knowing
he spends the night lying on cold stone
than your luxurious bed ever could,
you visit him from time to time,
to pontificate, for pretentious conversations,
and all seems right in the world while
he is controlled- and- beneath- you

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