The MI6
At the SIS fortress,
where the Thames mirrors silence,
they placed a photograph before me.
“We know his history,” they said,
“but tell us what lies beneath his skin.”
I studied his face—
rebellion carved in the jaw,
yet the stars betrayed him:
a Cancer Moon, a Cancer rising.
“Family is his chain,” I replied,
“pull that thread,
and the man will unravel.”
The chamber walls glared with portraits—
statesmen, kings,
criminals polished as diplomats.
Here, souls were stripped bare,
their desires charted like maps of war.
Every smile a mask,
every silence,
an unspoken crime.
And yet, each time I walked these halls,
a question haunted me:
When Elizabeth opened this house of secrets in 1994,
what prophecy stirred her mind?
Did she see guardians of the realm,
or merchants of deception?
Protectors,
or puppeteers?
The Thames whispers no answers.
It carries only reflections—
of men who gamble with empires,
who write destinies in shadows,
where truth is a currency,
and ghosts
are never at rest.
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