Think. Believe. Rethink.

The Last King

Bow down, King
 
Pick your head up,
 
In your own two hands;
 
For your hands were tied.
 
 
 
But I drew your sword
 
Your hands of lifeless gold, awakened
 
At the decision of my blood-soaked steel
 
Unshackled & Beheaded-
 
 
 
Your raw scalp mimicked my grass,
 
And planted deep in your barren soil,
 
Bled up from your filthy veins, resilient
 
Your crown held you, your place.
 
 
 
Rise up, King
 
Wipe your iron in the blades you lie in;
 
For it shall spread like wildfire
 
Reminiscent,
 
Of when your hands, now fluid
 
Burned the feet you lie beneath.
 
 
 
Your red washed over the blue in my intestine,
 
Drunk on your blood, which pissed out as water
 
What a pity!
 
For you, King.
 
 
 
Gave birth to the barley,
 
With the support of your crimson hair
 
The barley you desired, sire
 
What was pink and oiled,
 
Was now a gaping hole.
 
 
 
The green grew through the mouth,
 
Touched not the linings, which would burst it to flames,
 
Or worse;
 
Ingest it
 
Each man, woman, child plucked his tongue,
 
Tasted barley.
 
 
 
Cry, King
 
Your inflammatory tears touched the tongue
 
The barley has swelled, sire!
 
Puffed too big for you to spit
 
 
 
 
He ate like he always did – alone
 
His tongue ordered by the Sun
 
Which shot his eyes black
 
The King lay ugly, set in stone, omnipresent
 
The King’s dream, hath come true!
 

 

Your wish is my command, sire.

 
 
 
I am no God
 
What’s a god to a non-believer?
 
I am the crowd of people
 
What do I pick sire, your gold or your honey?
 
 
 
 
Keep birthing, King
 
Resign your job
 
For it is the soil’s, grass’, Sun’s now
 
You thought you were alone?
 
You were not privileged to be!
 
 

 

Be quiet King, do not disturb your will,

 
We have changed its allegiance.
 
 
 
 
Sit down
 
You will not eat alone
 
Eat with us – that is your punishment
 
Eat with us till your God himself
 
 

Cuts off the barley which grows through your dirty, fertile head

 
Till you finally perish a sweet, bearable death,
 
With us savages.
 
 
 
 
But unlucky King
 
I don’t believe in God
 
What’s a god to a non-believer?
 
 
 
 
Go on, eat.
 
Brief note by the poet:
 
 In the 4th stanza the ‘iron’ was supposed to be with a capital ‘I’ because in my mind the steel was his sword and the iron, his ego. The blades that he’d wipe them on would be the blades of grass, and was meant to signify the transfer of status/authority from the King to his environment, which once absorbed his power would be able to mould/control his severed head lying in the soil, to use the head itself as the media to grow the barley, the barley which he ate himself in solitude, to the people; with the plant ironically growing through his mouth, which I compare to his new tongue (ironic because it’s still his tongue but he can’t taste barley anymore) [‘Which was once pink & oiled ( because of the barley ) Is now a gaping lifeless hole’ ] thereby rounding off the conclusion to the King’s demise. 
 
‘Reminiscent’ serves to imply how the king himself exploited (‘Burned’) his subjects, and how he lies in the soil beneath them. (‘The feet he lay beneath’)
 
All the sentences ending with ‘sire’ are to signify satire and mock. 
                                  

1 Comment

  1. August 28, 2015    

    Beautiful

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