A Crown of Thorns is Still a Crown

Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall
-Bob Dylan

Blades for regicide, or the mere slaughter of dictators to restrict power, subsumes moral hindsight to Homer’s pen and bullets shower as ink spills, quills, feathers and symbols of patriotic glory welcome criticism, for without it, patriots would have nothing to defend. 

Assassins glut themselves with pastries and gain the guilt of French revolutionaries, remove royalty’s robes and dress them in the spoils of victory. This limitation knows no bounds. 

Land is conquered again and again and again and again. 

Conquerors trade dirt as if they were black holes regenerating galaxies. 

Cellphones capture sunlight and hold the beam like it was a blade poised to entertain the blood from a king.  

Darkness retains its broken promise of forevermore.

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