Tuesday, September 28, 2010

The New Palace

From across the highway, you park your car and watch it burn.
They've broken through the gates and set the monster on fire.
So you leave your old life here beside the road
and walk toward the screaming and the sirens.
You can't help but feel melancholic.
Where are the tyrants?
Where are the tyrants?

You've seen the footage on CNN and BBC before
but nothing prepares you for the taste of flames, the FRU,
the rattling of batons against riot shields.
Or the empty rush surging through your head
as the crowds heave and the ground gives way.
You're holding your breath.
You're holding your breath.

You see an inch-high figure with a loud hailer
but water cannons sweep him clean.
You see kids of every colour, with faces wrapped and raised fists:
the smell of dank sweat as it rubs of on your skin and claims you
for its own, pushing you to the front of the pack.
And then you hear the explosions.
You run.
You run.

Up ahead a girl is being dragged off by her hair.
Another girl is being kicked. And another. And another.
You feel the fullness of your anger like the stone in your hand
and you give it wings, you give it life, you let it fly
from your fist by the full swing of your shoulder.
There.
There.

Darkness burns like an inkstain across the parchment of the skies.
The palace is ravaged and there's crimson in your eyes.
Is it time to go home yet or should you wait
for the last embers to die?
Someone touches you on your shoulder and asks:
Did we kill the king?
Did we kill the king?

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