A family lay framed upon the walnut,
Dust collecting, isolated in neglect –
A room, ivory and gold, cleansed of dirt,
Empty of soul, the Emperor sits in wait.
Glass, crystal, clear visions of the towers,
A mirror of the powers climbing up
to take his throne – woollen armour,
chain mail of silk, his sword signs paper
white as milk, a list of crimson fit to spill
by the bullet of the phone.
A family lay hidden within a drawer,
Skin now framed upon the walnut;
Sweat dripped down with every thrust,
The Emperor, yet to conquer lust,
a room so full of wealth,
And in that threatening mirror,
Saw an empty, frightened self.