His throne room lies vacant before us,
the halls of his reign, oblique,
the air of his fellowship encapsulated in heaps of golden dust,
remnants of pride,
and bitter, iron greed.
Incriminate us, if you will; accuse us of slander, if you please.
But when we lifted those shining, rubicund curtains we uncovered
the squalid, phlegmatic obsequiousness that guided us once:
that driving force, day after day,
of what could have been,
and what would never come to be,
should our idle feet remain glued to a kingdom founded
on the skeletons of silenced voices.
No one came to help us.
We pleaded, but no one came.
We have no hero to slay our dragons,
no knights to re-conquer our beleaguered cities.
There is only us.
There was only ever us.
Portraits of arsenic-laden autocrats,
plates of the finest silver,
and drapes of the purest satin:
We set them aflame.
We watched them burn.
We cheered together as the smoke climbed and conquered,
filling every pitch-black crevice,
every indestructible, fragile edifice.
Where once stood a lying, undisputed throne,
now rises the monuments we erected,
reminders of what could be,
and what never should become again.
The King is Dead.