Empty of empathy,
a room of sycophants,
listen to the emperor
of doom and gloom.
Thick lies are strewn about.
It is a sad thing
coming out of the face
of that lying mouth.

The house will crumble.
Each day there’s a new crack.
The emperor’s paranoia,
fierce as a flood, storms

through orchards and
the city streets. Everything
he touches will rot
before it hits the ground.

The laboring goes on
despite the agony.
The hands of farmhands
still put in an honest day’s

work. The emperor will
curse the ones he finds
alien. It is a terrible thing
to know things can get worse.