I may not be around since reality loves to buckle and collapse at the most inconvenient times. I will eventually get back with you, once I conquer whatever is before Me making Me absent. But until then, wish Me luck, for I will need all I may muster.
Polish the crown till it blinds the sun,
stack velvet high on the chosen one.
Gold on the plate, silk on the seat,
but hunger’s a wolf with iron teeth.
Trumpets can blare, banners can wave,
thrones can hover above the grave.
But famine’s law is sharp and true:
a starving crowd still chews on you.
Royal blood in a crystal cup,
pretty until the cupboards shut.
Empty bowls make kingdoms shake,
and crowns start looking like ribeye steak.
See how the palace walls grow thin
when the drums of the stomach thunder within.
The fork don’t care for lineage lines,
it only cares how the marrow shines.
So rule if you wish with jeweled decree,
float through halls of pageantry.
But starve the mouths that feed the land,
and watch the feast get out of hand.
Because when the tables finally flip
and the people sharpen knife and wit,
the rule of the roast is grim and true:
Royalty doesn’t stop them from eating you.
It only means
you’re first on the menu.
-
Author:
Rev. Lord C.M.Bechard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 5th, 2026 11:21
- Comment from author about the poem: When mouths start to drip saliva instead of poisoned words for their oppressors, then you know it's about lunch time.
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Loved this one it speaks with hunger and I hear the sharpening of the knife. A fave
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