Rust in the Crown
I behold the iron—
gleaming, unbent in the sunlight;
yet within, a slow fire eats its marrow.
Rust spreads like a secret plague,
and once it begins,
no hand of man can cleanse it whole.
The tale of the kingmaker whispered it to me,
the theatre of selfish rulers carved it on my mind.
I saw thieves in holy garments,
anointed in greed,
investing their crimes like merchants of sorrow.
Their hunger is endless,
their ruthlessness a sharpened blade.
Heroism is not a sin,
yet the battlefield is never safe.
Who shall raise a shield for me?
Who shall lend me a voice?
If I perish, tomorrow wears no mourning cloth.
If my name survives, it is miracle;
if forgotten, I become a nameless ghost—
a son of dust,
sailing the one-way river of the dead,
longing to greet the countless shadows
who fell as I have fallen.
Justice walks with trembling feet;
its seekers sleep with daggers at their throats.
For the heads that once taught us virtue
now feast at the banquet of decay.
They crown their tables with corruption,
they threaten the tongues of truth,
and with fear’s black whip
they make Justice herself
a prisoner in chains.
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