The tyrant built his tower tall, set straight to work a-cutting through the golden threads that join us all to hoard them in his mental zoo.
Its bricks were baked of stolen clay in his kleptocratic kilns’ cracked moulds. Their stench of sulfurous yellow stays as mockery of our cords of gold.
He covets the gleaming ties we share to gild the cavern in his tower. The pit that’s fed with his charm’s snares cannot be sated with this gold of ours.
His true name is as it ever stayed, be it Xerxes, or Julius, or Wilhelm, or Don, this ******* hybrid of hubris and hate, who feeds on sycophantic fawns.
But despots have their own red thread, a truth of iron wrought long before: Each one will end encased in lead, entombed beneath time’s deepening ****.
The tower topples, his memory fades. He takes his place with Hades’ shades.