The Feast of the Hollow Kings

At tables carved from broken dreams,
They feast on suffering’s bounty —
These paper-crown monarchs,
Their hollow eyes reflecting
The gleam of golden plates.

Watch them gorge themselves
On worker’s tears served chilled,
On hope filleted and garnished,
On future’s flesh, thinly sliced,
While misery wines flow freely.

Their cutlery clinks like coins,
Each bite measured in profit margins,
Each toast a celebration
Of democracy’s defeat,
Of power’s perfect gluttony.

The chandeliers drip blood-light
Over empty suits that speak
In numbers and percentages,
Their shadows stretching longer
With each course of corruption.

See how they laugh,
These princes of nothing,
As their thrones rot beneath them,
As their crowns tarnish
With the rust of revolution.

Their banquet hall floats
Above reality’s reach,
While below, the masses starve
On promises and platitudes,
On tomorrow’s empty plate.