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?
