Pointy castles,

written in the stars,

they wrote the pathways,

and the gates,

and the people too

when the sun rises,

he begins,

a scepter to the charred,

he’s good enough, isn’t he

he’s careful, shoot

But they walk through marble hallways

Overconfidence in their heads,

The voices in the mist-drawn air,

Falling on the hearing deaf instead

and then the drawbridge falls

beep beep, Access Gained

is there an army behind you

Or is that a clown in chains

Their laughs are resounding,

Centuried surround-sound,

But their boyish caws,

Will shake the empire to the ground

and then he walks forward

With only necessity and prepared in his head

He doesn’t have an army,

But he walks with all the dead

They call out all their finest men,

Battle cry and draw,

All ready to face the joker,

With a gun in his jaw

And out he pulls his weapon,

It’s the broken backs he found,

On the streets where empty pots,

Come in the quarter pound

And their smiles invariably falter,

As they look upon his stride,

What happened to the mistaken,

The ones who lost their pride

And then he stands in front of them,

His eyes scan over their knives,

The points of which stare back at him,

Their triggers on falling dimes

His years of hunger will pay off now,

His forevers of rewardless toil,

And as he raises his arms to throw the fire,

He knocks them to the soil

Their smiles have seemed to vanish,

Their laughter, disappeared,

And instead they regard him with an air that he,

Could serve only to be feared

But as the scepter rises

And falls back on steady hands,

There is no fear in fair rule,

Once it rises up again

So he keeps a mirror by the power,

Not only to be vain,

But so he can see the stories of those,

Who came before him and were slain

He sees the mistaken moping around the floor,

When the drawbridge has gone down,

But their grimaces are enough to keep

him standing on the ground

And he will not ever be the mistaken,

Those who fall without their pride,

But he also will not be,

The tyranny that soon will die

Or so he thinks is the case,

His clownish aerobics will decide,

But for now the words of the revolution,

On his studied back, reside

For now he walks through rusted hallways,

Virtue in his head,

He walks to the beat of revolutions,

And the voices of the dead.

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