Drawing your broadsword,
The shrill sound of blade on scabbard
Sends the wind whistling as you ready for the plunge.
From your gilded perch you call a throne,
You drive your saber home!
Stripping away every last breath,
Leaving those that built your dominion
Clutching their throats and gasping for air,
All to adorn your coffers
With the gold of fools.
Corpses of the loyal lie scattered about
Left to rot in the noonday sun.
You know more will come
Looking to you for mercy and sustenance,
Knowing they too are expendable.
Your minstrels praise you calling you benevolent Lord
While you smile your hollow smile.
With yellowed teeth and putrid breath
You shower them with accolades,
All the while condemning them to death.
You find this such great sport,
A vicious game,
Played solely for your amusement.
Who loses makes no matter
So long as its you that prospers.
You look down upon your subjects
With jeweled goblet in hand,
Whispering in contempt
That they are not worthy of your grace
Nor deserving of your clemency.
So you carry on like a spoiled Prince
Conniving those around you,
“Fear not!”, you proclaim–this is all in jest,
While the executioner readies his block
For the next ax to fall.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Authors Note: I wrote this piece back in November of 2012 and as I expected, nothing has changed, in fact in many ways it has gotten drastically worse for so many people. Sadly, I can’t really say I am surprised.
Dom DiFrancesco 
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