Pageantry and Protests

Occasionally poetry is better than prose.

Today is such an occasion.

Kings and Queens of lands far away, sit on thrones made of gold taken from places we don’t like to say.

Yet we stay, in reverence of authority un-earned and un-laboured, because we just can’t say, no it’s time that you properly pay.

Cost of living crisis everywhere, but over £100 million spent without care.

British taxpayers vex, but protests can’t be broadcast without someone talking out their neck.

Alleged scandals of sex appear in full regalia, but runaway spares banished to simple attire.

An abuse of power versus a reclamation of power.

The treatment so different, because power does not like to be challenged.

Power likes to consolidate, but then there is also fate.

No amount of control can eclipse destiny.

And what is meant to be will stay, while what is meant to go will sway.

Swing low, sweet chariot; the great star diamond in the crown is not Camelot.

The monarch also not too keen. Whatever will he do with all this power, still to be seen.

A life in waiting, trapped, nowhere to go. To the ego, quite an unimaginable blow.

With great power comes great responsibility.

Reform they say. Scale back they say. Forward thinking they say.

Yet still, nobody wants to pay.

––––
‘til next Sunday!
Zoya