Before we became wards of the state,
dependent upon the appanages of a royal uncle,
you could find us standing shoulder to shoulder
pressing our case, but to no avail.

In the end it was our undoing. The words we used
were too brittle, and when the guard changed
there was no one left to sweep up the dust.

Ambling away, square-jawed and proud
of the tattoos covering our scars, the men grew
large beards, the women grew in stature.
We turned our backs on the watchword.

And now we are held accountable,
for everything we see is in jeopardy.

Bad news travels fast, unencumbered
by the absurd constant of absurdity,
while the inmates, confused, not helpless,
remake the world in the only image they know.

*The King of Hearts