Malignancy

He wears a crown that no one gave,
commands an empire of the grave,
a tyrant on a throne of lies,
with mirrors hung before his eyes.

The world, he thinks, turns on his word,
each whispered thought a thunderbird,
while lesser souls, he’s sure, bow low
to worship at his ego’s glow.

But malignancy runs beneath,
a poison smile, a serpent’s teeth,
for grandeur feeds on others’ pain,
and cruelty is his domain.

He sees himself a god, a king,
he offers nothing, takes everything,
in delusion’s grip he stands so tall,
too blind to see he’s nothing, small.

The monuments he builds to self
are hollow as forgotten wealth,
a tyrant lost in fever dreams,
where nothing’s ever what it seems.

And when at last the curtain falls,
when silence fills his golden halls,
the megalomaniac will find
he ruled nothing and lost his mind.