Poem
The noseless king has fallen.
Never will he thrust
his self-gouged, unclosed wound
to others, selling it to himself
as their reflection,
roaring in such a manner
that some believe it.
Our emperor, his new wardrobe
from a while back
was his own blood.
His historians revised that fact
into him having nothing on,
a youthful indescretion
without the youth.
His potential mourners
have long since revised him
into nothing there.
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