by Nick Gisburne
I take the shortest straw, by chance, by choice,
Selected by the fickleness of fate.
Untroubled by its meaning, I rejoice,
My focus on the figurehead of hate.
The monarch, mad, malicious, crazed, confused,
Dishonours every jewel of the crown.
The empire, warped by wickedness, abused,
Will breathe, reborn, when justice drags him down.
Unchallenged by the soldiers of the guard,
By those who knew this day would surely come,
I deal the broken king his final card.
They find me, still and silent, kneeling, numb.
A servant of the greater good, a pawn,
My sentence will be swift. I die at dawn.
