He sits in a palace. All dressed and prepared. His servants are waiting on what’s to be said. He tyrants, he wills and it happens at once. Destroy that, demolish this, be gone you at last. He cares not for victims, their glassy eyes empty; he cares not for kingdom, all hurt and at loss. He is the monarch, the ruler, the king of it all. He screams and it happens, he wills and it’s so. Until…the palace roof gently falls out of place. The palace door is removed to make some more space. A head then appears in the entryway little: “Darlin’, my honey, you ready for dinner?”
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