SONNET: Kings

if there is a moment when kings fall i will reap their spoils.

i will be there with my knees upon the cobblestone waiting for coins

and trinkets, scepters they grasp with white knuckles until they hit the ground.

their silk robes—now tattered and caked with mud—will kiss my hands

as i seized them from their plump backs. the gems from their crowns are mine

when they skin their foreheads and let the ruby drip, brighter than the jewels

that adorn the tacky caps grazing their mortalized heads.

as they lie there i will climb upon their marble thrones and steal their beds,

wives and all, and i will speak of their nature as gaudy fools

who are the product of some unholy being's eternal patriarch design:

i will bound myself to the tops of concrete columns with leather bands

and wait ever-so-feverishly for the hooting calls and cheering sounds

of those below me with a deep-seeded burning tussling in their loins.

i will rise above these dreaded kings and slaughter their earthly toils.