Back in the before we could blame the kings

Now it’s we who ourselves badly king it

It’s we who’ve raised up chimeric nightmares,

Caligula’s and Henry of 8’s spliced 

At the groin, vessels of malignancy, 

Their power an emptiness, dark absence

That must be filled and never filled can be

Swallowing our ignorance, hatred, sloth

Like twilit stars collapsed to radiate

In poisonous jets lies, distortions, blame

Of the innocent and nearly guilty

Projecting their own darkness through our lens

They’ll thieve the halls of our sacred palace

Its doors never fully opened but might; 

Distant thunder the collapsing columns 

Under the four corners of what was built

For us all and that they now claim as theirs

The keys handed to us and handed them

To destroy and remake as rubble,

Foundations for bone towers they will raise 

Of dreams, of hopes, the uncomplaining dead-

Riding not on clouds with horseman and scales

But slouching on our own backs, they will come.

–The Cursing Poet, aka, SAB

      Rev. 1/12/24