Gilding the Throne

Every time I wander westward
I hold a gun into the air
I couldn’t –

You’re diving off buildings in the
hope of flight, in the hope
of something resembling life.

And when strings play
symphonies to
the sympathy of my bones -
I’m one worry too much
for the attention of the throne.

Off with his head, and
out with his heart! And
every time I travel westward
I see a new way to stop
and an old way to start.

The End

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