midas' mourning // poetry

the tell tale heart

is it not ichor behind his pupil?
that molting rat does hide his riches
in the golden weaves of his oculus
he mocks me! i dare you, i dare you
rebuff me before you see the way he
laughs at me with his insipid glare

oh what a pirate, if gold did not have a name
he would shoot it up his veins and embrace
his sons as if they were not his seed
while their roots turned ashen with the
biting hunger of poverty

i must have him! i must take it all for mine
before i let this man dance with the gods
with no repercussion. he must know mortality;
he must know my humanity; my hunger;
my bone-bare threads; my rotten teeth;
my aching breath; my fallen breast

and still he stares at me, i feel his stare through the
slit of my third eye and feel his lack of judgement—

he think himself a man of higher morals? he thinks
himself oh so humble? oh so good? oh so righteous?

you cannot fool me! you are a thief, who steals blood
from the dreams of sheep and and paints your own eyes
to see only what the heavenly are permitted
while i sit arrested in the dimness of my father's dimension

i was spitting, and howling, and slobbering,
creaking into the night of his paradise sheltering
his hubris, audacity, intent, nature
and then i had him in my hands

his drowsiness was my accomplice
and we laughed in mirth as his gold eyes
stirred reluctantly—what a gloating bastard
i watched them bulge bleed burst until
the ichor met my flesh, my right, until his
ego was no more, and the world
was free of one more hypocrite

the bread i burned, the wine i spit,
all to gain the strength to topple a King
and bring my people salvation from charity

the police men were curious, enraged, befuddled
and i wondered out loud, "did you want a taste of the ichor?
it tasted like honey, and smelt like money."

~kmandah

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