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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Dark · #1751087
This crown atop my head does not mean that I rule my own nation.
A parade of mops,
red leading white.
Their tribute demeans
the loyal jester laid low
before my throne.

I command him, rise.
In death, he still defies.

That useless crown
rebounds against the walls
to rest in darkness.
How it mocks: oh, childish king.

In time, I understand.
This golden, royal halo
chains my will —
even as I crush my people.

My wicked works, at last, demand:
I must conquer him that rules my land.





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