With sharpened tongues and bloodied blades,
Resolve burned in their frigid gazes;
Grinning in the shadow of their leader.
They bordered him like loyal wolves,
each so debonair and dauntless.
Their opposition cowered quietly;
The lesser coyotes of the land.
Each with scepter, still they followed
The one they could not parallel.
He was the icon of their aspirations;
A paragon of their pride.
He was the highest executioner,
And yet kept the cleanest blade.
His visage was impeccable
Beneath it something brooded.
The sunlight hid behind drawn curtains,
the darkness overwhelmed them all.
Trustingly they sat and smiled,
Unexpectedly they'd fall.
He took his seat upon his throne
And silence hastened forth.
He had become a deity.
His audience too often sinned.
Revolution stalked the table like a specter.
The incorrigible had spent their turn.
He spoke but once before it ended.
The old world he would burn.
No comments:
Post a Comment