My empire aches
under the weight of a faithless people.
The pulse of my metrolopolis
echoes and thuds like a migraine,
like a war drum.
The stone veins of the temple gush with unanswered questions,
with the loudest of lies.
Why do the gods let our sons die?
Why do they permit the nile to dry?
The gods do as the gods do, say my priests,
and the pulse gets louder.
Throbbing, pounding,
the slaves hear it too.
Every man is free among these invaders,
yet they live and die for royal traitors.
My statues collapse, their columns retreating,
and the spine of my kingdom snaps.
The flesh of my palace is tarnishing
with every servant to abandon ship.
The enemy is infront of me
and my people force open my jaws to let them in.
No scar shall remain upon the earth as my civilisation fades.
My people -
Once my people -
will live on within a new host,
spit my name like poison for a blink or two
and then it too shall fade into obscurity
as quickly as a bruise.
A body is nothing without its heart,
and no king can rule an empty kingdom.
supine thoughts
By emmarhol
Poetry exploring thoughts into love, sexuality, mental health and navigating the modern world. More