Moon at Half Past Noon

The dwarf who wraps himself in royal cloth
Is not just dressed—he’s traded in his skin.
He has no use for reason, only heft;
He stands because the losing side is mute.
His truth spills from the iron throat of power;
His own voice? Buried with his baby teeth.

The courtiers who cluster in his shade
Believe the steel they borrow is their own.
The skull is hollow but the helmet shines
With borrowed fire they will never feel.
They call it victory—the abattoir’s keys
Swing from a master’s belt while they still kneel.

Across the wire, the torch-lit rebels wait;
They’ve studied loss the way surgeons learn bone.
They think the pyre is a bridge, a gate—
But reach the shore to find: more shore. More river.
History is a furnace. It cannot tell
Your blood from oil. It only asks: is it wet?

Kiss the high throne. Kiss the low wooden cross.
The furnace does not answer to your prayers.
It has no ledger, keeps no tally sheet—
It only asks if what you offer burns.
In the end, no king survives, no rebel stands,
Only a hall where loyalty sifts down
Like ash that settles after fire is done.

The board is always maple. The pieces change.
Both kings fall into the same locked box.
The velvet lining takes the shape of loss.
What does the maple know of who prevailed?
It gave its timber. That is all it had.
The rest—the game, the glory, and the grief—
Was never wood’s to keep. The rest was lost.