I want to speak in poetry
about how when people say
they'll be here for you,
they usually lie.

So much has been lost to
a cold war of passive aggression,
passions in long succession,
maybe spite.

Stings like alcohol on a fresh wound.

We all get here eventually, maybe,
I'd throw us all away to just be
the last one laughing.
The last one on top of this pile of demons
with a massive crown of scabs
fit for some king monster
&
large beating disgusting
wings.

This empire needs no throne.