You believed
then
that you could go to her serenely
gleaming Majesty draped on her perch,
you could go and shout and sing
and march a throng, seek, appeal
beseech in common, sing, a march along
sense
her granulated succor, at least
you thought, the man-child you had become,
yes, that one, even then still believing.
And now you know, now, and for all she’s truly
now
a snarling, smirking Majesty, her shameful,
bronze, a hollow pose now
shambolic, and now a slothic
grubbing mocking grifter laughing
at flaccid, hoary hope, at angered
frozen bile, defiled and hammered.
You are now woefully inured
to scum, soloing your bleats into
the blue green darkness.
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