The King Is Dead. Poem by Luke Nicholson

I am not this ill intent, i am but badly drawn.

Are you badly drawn too?

Slowly, let the drum roll lead the marches.

Sketch me a mind and with it i’ll learn words, words to be used as defences against those who would write you and i off as them merely of the side street dwellings.

The suit man designed us to serve a purpose did he not? To be the focus of their blame, he made sure we were born, and then cast us into the edges, where mothers dare not to mourn, he speaks “the people need a villain and my boys you fit the bill”.

Let the drum roll lead the marches.

Are you not tired? We weary icons steering this ship through the sea, downward to hell because you know, all will spit and all throw, when you and i are toe to toe.

Brothers, the time has come, the sword is the mind and we it’s Knights, with it we must fight, fight that design of the suit mans wishes, and fight that prison of memories lost and fight that plot of ill intent.

Let my drum roll lead the marches.

My orphans black and orphans white, you who are built of pure poetry and might, our voice is found and it is one of truth and bloody rage.

Thrown down.

The Iron mask circles the ground.

Let the sun water your eyes and light fill your blood.

We are badly drawn but we are not to blame, the King is dead and the sword is the mind.

We are ready.

Our drum roll will lead the marches.

Run suit man… run.