My Heart of Iron Pyrite

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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Author's Notes: Click Here ▶︎

The violence here is cautionary, not gratuitous. What you see is a meditation on power.

As an overnight clerk at a low-rent convenience store, I see more than my share of crime. None of it punished or redressed. I yearn, sometimes, for the power to punish these crimes. At what cost? If I had this absolute power, would I be a leader or a despot? Would I help my people, or would I be a tyrant?

Ultimately, one thing is certain: with that sort of power, I alone would be able to redress my own injustices. For I alone could wage this war with the king...