humble yourself, o king,
for your crown sits perilously upon your thorny head!
the earthquakes and thunderstorms and rioting crowds
will surely knock it off and knock you to your feet--
look at you, little king,
you stand so small, on a fraying string,
with a unfathomable cosmos stretching like a dome of imagination
over your frail, mortal self.
long live the king! but the king never lives long!
so let the wicked, blackened hatred curl around your heart and mind,
let it consume you--grab a shovel and dig into the earth and make a grave for yourself!
moronic king, don't you see?
whether you live or die or love or hate or think or go with the masses--it all means nothing!
in the grand scheme of this tragedy, you are not a main character.
the show will still go on without you, the world will not pause on it's axis because of you.
the trees will still grow and create massive forests, the rivers will still flow and empty themselves into the bottomless oceans,
the sky will still tremble and dance and weep, the sun will still set and the moon will still blink:
this world does not care about you.
