White palace

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A half-sun shone dimly over the horizon; it would be gone within the hour
A bellwether stood on the steps of White Palace, its façade a brooding, quasi-glower
His proselytes gathered there, increasing in ribaldry
Over was the time for good-natured raillery

“No longer will the people be supine and meek,” the bellwether’s words stirred them to cheer
“The palace will be ours, and oppression will end;” since when does a mob have soldiers to fear?
His countrymen assembled, forming a troop
White Palace was stormed by the rebellious group

The mob fought the palace guards for half an hour; hundreds of men rushed in just to die
Amid noisome chaos, a group took the throne room; a sliver of sun still shone in the sky
The monarch was cornered, outnumbered, effete
He stood with his adjuncts awaiting defeat

“Bow to your people’s will, hidebound old coward;” the bellwether’s sword shone like the dawn
“Today I meet oblivion, but nothing will change;” those last words, and the king and sun were gone
A caterwaul finale, the sword’s victory
The rebel mob reveled in the fait accompli

The bellwether’s plot came to fruition; the starless sky had become a morass
The vignette of the sunrise would show once again; a mirage, not success
The dawn would come tomorrow, a cyclical liturgy
Ordained to renew the hierarchy





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