"A Note for the King," a poem

Our stutter-step
republic,

what was it that made you 
give it
all away?

Were you always this way?
Since day one,
was greed and
contempt
entrenched
within your bones?

Can't you see 
there will be
 
others

after you're gone?

Your signature
will forever read:

an addict for a cure

that would never suffice;
a king for a damned' few

until time,
like all
the rest,

has its way with you.

This blood of mine, this blood of ours -

it won’t bring the acceptance 
from the ones 
you want it from 
most.

Like your father,
like your rich friends,
like the populist crowd
you would never dine with:

They have only ever used you,
and you have only ever used them.

Admit to yourself,
There was never any love there.

There was only ever
what they
could take from you,
and what you
could take
from them.