The Critic

He sits atop his literary throne
built from junkyard treasures
Surveys his kingdom with jaundiced eyes
oiled with the juice of perverted pleasures

A pontificating fool
astride a decrepit donkey
leads a tattered band
across the scorched landscape

Dark fantasies spew forth
reputed as absolute truths
An eerie cackling rises from the throat
While blood droplets fall from his calamus

Proclaiming right by personal decision
Damning those who fail to concede
The Emperor of Ego rules
Addicted to the sound of his own voice.

Copyright Anna Stephens