On Reincarnation

by Suave Mentira

All hail the king in shadow

Who marches with a rattle and roll

That glides

with a thousand black eyes.

What are little hands

that scratch along the precipice,

reaching for something more?

A tyrant once,

(who never will be)

ever in fate’s favour.

He who lives on,

comes to find eternal death.

on his last, shallow breath,

he can only bow.

 

All hail the Rat King.

 

With a thousand thousand coats,

Ivory daggers will chatter.

Who is all push and pull and,

tug of war.

Whose existence is the sum of our curses.

The sour droplets of our latest crisis’

and deprivations,

All seep down to

A starving tyrant,

raving mad

Rat King.

 

Born of war and decay

– a thousand dead –

Turns to

– a thousand full bellied –

Our king in shadow is all silent:

If a thousand thousand heartbeats

cannot overwhelm,

then let there be

a thousand thousand death rattles

that rip and tear all sense.

Let there be shadows that fill valleys,

if only to dream of the sun.

Solemn is his duty,

who serves the rat king but himself?

So, I offer this sermon,

not in service or worship,

but with a knowing grimace:

To bear our torment

your duty is grave.

No fate is worse than

to live beneath contempt

 

A king is no tyrant if it’s freedom he craves.

What more is a Rat King,

than fates’ own slave?

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