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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #2176544
Not the poetry that rhymes. The one that thinks.
On his throne he sat holding gold and silver. On his head was a crown of obsidian encrusted with diamonds. He stood up and acknowledged his people. Wearing a smile that shown fake upon his face. He turned promptly away letting his crimson cape flow behind. A crazed man shouted to the ivory balcony from the sea of nameless people “show your blood soaked hands, tyrant king!”. The people’s eyes flashed with blackness, the faint distant stares called for blood. They at once lit flames and casted them to the balcony. As the flames surrounded him his eyes showed regret. He jumped down and fell into his oblivian. His riches were released from him and his legacy died. The people washed the blood off his hands but did not wash the blood off there’s. Those people you see? Do they also have blood stained hands? I wonder?
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