An iron crown.
A bloody throne.
Peasants bow down on polished marble,
wishing to kiss the bones of each toe.
You strike an apple upon a rebels head
and follow with machine guns.
An echo of their death.
Respect your spilled, purple blood.
Lick their palms and pluck their teeth.
Leave them in puddles of putrid soil
and use bombs.
A facade of lethal fireworks
to celebrate the destruction of
unquestionable loyalty.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholy Thorns
PoetryPoetry is an outlet Millions of words devised into emotions It means thousands of things And simultaneously nothing at all. Someone once told me "the older the eyes, the heavier the burden." For those that feel lost in this world........ - I ho...
