The Tyrant's Creed

The tyrant, wrapped in borrowed words, proclaims—
“To save the nation, no law is too sacred to break.”
But his voice is an echo of fallen empires,
cracking the foundation where justice once stood.

A nation without law is no nation at all—
just a land ruled by fear, bent beneath his boot,
where freedom withers, and silence takes root.

No ocean can wash away his disgrace,
no hourglass can measure his downfall.
The mourners are gone, their voices hushed—
no song remains to grieve his ruin.

For what is a nation, if not a promise kept?
And what is law, if not the guide of the stars?
Justice must flow like a river, carving its own course,
not be pulled like a puppet on a tyrant’s string.

Does the sword rule justice, or justice the sword?
Does one lion’s roar speak for the wild?
No—it is the unraveling of a thousand threads,
a people’s spirit frayed by fear,
each silence another link in the chain of oppression.

When a tyrant calls himself a savior,
let history speak the truth:
Every law he shatters sows the seed of his downfall,
every silenced voice returns as a ghost to haunt him.

The breath of the oppressed moves time’s pendulum—
the future will shape his fate on the anvil of justice.
And when his reign turns to ash,
only the wind will whisper his epitaph:
"Here lies the man who mistook his shadow for a throne."

MyKoul