The Tyrant's Throne
A poem about, well, a tyranny
Upon a golden throne, topped with a gleaming crest Sits a king at plot and feast, who no appetite arrests. His throne’s seat, crimson filled with goose's feathers, Is freshly dyed with oldest son, of old, by brothers. Around his dias he wraps conditions, Layers of sycophants and ambitions, Greased with flattery to alloy the warpings, So spins the court’s vicious courtings. White marble, veined with grey Races to hold the courtier’s sway. Dancing feet and jesting sweet Fed by newly wrought peasant’s meat. The clink of over-topped chalices, Filled with grapes squeezed by serf’s callouses, Dribble and drop red wine splashes Over a floor-realm commanded by whip lashes. As soldiers march from the palace gates The nobles chew, drink, and laugh on our fates. The wine-stained bread crumbs scatter tabletops Far from the loaf-dishes and their rightful sups. Beware that palace seeming white, And the painted nobles’ feasting night. For while their armies command our days, This night we conspire to make them pay.
Bravo, this is brilliant.