17 November 2012
The emperor glides through the steers, His cloak, a midnight blue, But, when moonlight falls upon it, It fades to a lighter hue.
Every flowing swathe of crystal, Laps the tears of broken men, Women, children, even elders, On the streets from ten til' ten.
Ice surrounds his heartless body, Snowflakes whisper in the air, Blue, the colour of his veins and blue, The light, upon his hair.
When hopeless hands grab at the cloak, With fingers, withered to the bone, Their eyes grow wide with bliss, then anger, Fills their hearts for them to hone.
Though, at night, when he cannot be seen, They tell the noman's tale, That position of the emperor, Is always up for sale.
One who wears the cloak of midnight, Til' it turns an icy blue, Will have power over all the lands, But power, cursed, too.
For, the donning of the crystal robe, Will lock away your soul, You'll have power, riches straight from rags, But never be a whole.
So, as the colour is now noted, To be pure, but dark as night, So is the emperor, devoted, To be wary of the light.
Emperor • Opuss № I