Red Like the Blood You Spilled on the Water

A Poem

Photo by Tom Robertson on Unsplash

the streets are stained by you,
that grime of another life
when you thought yourself king
and played the games to match

the historians try to pick you apart
as if you are something to marvel —
when your mind’s gone mad, indeed,
over all the things you cannot have

the people cry out their pleas,
but you never heard them once
even as they swarmed the palace
and raged against all your locked doors

the timing doesn’t matter, does it,
when you feel you’re invincible —
so far removed from the mortal plane
like you’re a god of your own making

the wars will outlast you, probably,
because men love to carve out thrones
in all the places that aren’t theirs —
lands stolen from generations past

the devil will come for you, I know,
because he calls you his best friend
while you smirk away at cameras
and try to sell us the word of God