| I. THE EMPEROR
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| Standing in the space that holds the silent lace of night
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| away from you
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| You think that you can hold the searing, moulten gold between
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| your fingers …
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| But it slips through, tearing tendons as it goes,
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| Exposing the white of a knuckle …
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| Flesh-and-metal forming letters in the mould.
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| Cradling you gun, after choosing the ones you think should die-
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| Lying on the hill … crawling over the windowsill into your
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| living-room
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| They stare out, glass-eyed aimless heads,
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| Bodies torn by vultures.
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| You are the man whose hands are rank with the smell of death.
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| Saviour of the Fallen, Protector of the Weak,
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| Friend of the Tall Ones, Keeper of the Peace …
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| Ah, but it is the only way you know …
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| Looking out to sea, a flattened plane of weeds which bear no living
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| You crush life in your fist as your heart is kissed by the lips
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| of death
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| Ghosts betray you, ghosts betray you, in the night they steal your eye
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| From it’s socket …
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| And the ball hangs fallen on your cheek.
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| Complaining tongues are stilled; |
| a thousand mouths are filled
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| with rusting metal.
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| Your face a shade of green; |
| somehow you try to speak through all the
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| garbage in your mouth
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| But it won’t come out, and you cannot frame the words
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| As your stepson
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| Throws your fame into the flames and you are burned.
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| Saviour of the Fallen, Protector of the Weak,
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| Friend of the Tall Ones, Keeper of the Peace.
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| Ah, but it is the only way you know …
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| Ii. |
| THE ROOM
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| Live by sword and you shall die so,
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| All your power shall come to nought,
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| Every life you take is part of your own,
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| Death, not power, is what you’ve bought.
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| Cringing in your room as the outriders of doom step
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| on your threshold;
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| Begging for your life as the impartial knife sinks in your
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| screaming flesh …
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| Without malice, merely taking murder’s toll,
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| You must pay the price of hate, and that price is your soul …
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| Live in peace or die forever in your war-room. |