The Emperor’s Threadbare Cloak

Behold the wind, how it whispers truth

Through hollow halls of power and gilded lies,

Yet, your courtiers weave a cloak of deceit,

Blind to the threads unraveling before their eyes.

O King of Shadows, perched on brittle thrones,

Your rule is a storm, uprooting tender roots.

Where cries of the stolen pierce the night,

You gather silence, harvesting bitter fruits.

The roads are littered with the dropped, displaced,

Abductees returned like whispers in the dark.

Their scars, unseen, yet stories traced

On hearts that bear your empire’s mark.

Your sycophants, with swollen pride,

Sing praises to a crown of thorns.

"Extend the reign!" they bellow wide,

Unmoved by fields of withered corn.

But can you not hear the earth’s lament?

The soil churns with the tears of the oppressed.

Each threat you sow, each soul you torment,

Is the fabric unraveling from your hollow vest.

O President, your nakedness gleams,

A truth your cronies dare not reveal.

For power blinds, and vanity dreams,

But the mirror of history does not conceal.

You stand ranked by the world, a tarnished jewel,

Second among the merchants of graft.

Misrule builds your kingdom, cruel,

Yet the tide rises; justice sails its raft.

Beware the storm, O Emperor of Ash,

For no fortress withstands the tide of time.

The people will rise, and tyranny will crash,

Their song of freedom a righteous chime.

So don your threads of power, if you dare,

But know the fabric is threadbare and worn.

The day will come when you must stand bare,

And face the dawn of a reckoning morn.

© Bunguswa ™