a whirl
on heels
with a
shrew could
strew the
map with
their features
a cartographer
drew in
their wild
fantasy with
red carpet
with their
faction pursued
a revolution
with Stanton
à la carte

You have created a throne,
made of paper and glass,
of lies and diluted facts.
So sturdy on the outside,
but still so fragile on the inside.

Your crown,
was it made of glass too?
Or is that merely,
a trick of the eyes?

You rule over a world,
that prays for your downfall,
undermining your work,
and sneering down at your lows.
Waiting for the moment,
that your paper throne falls.

When will they decide,
to stop waiting?
When will they decide,
to come for the head,
that the glass crown rests on?

What will you do?
You are nothing,
but a boy king,
a child majesty.

They will come for your blood,
for your throne,
for your crown.

But do not worry.

You will not have to wait for long.

After all,
papaer is only so strong,
and glass so sturdy.

When the day's are rough.
She pour down
her thoughts
on the paper,
to ease her
heart.