Oh royalty,
the bruise of champions
sits stark upon thy skin,
raised and tender, protruding
in pride through shameful designs,
this be a mark of honour?
Nay, there be only guilt
that lies beneath such waves
of sinew,
worked, kneaded, into bone
through sweat,
brow coated and muscle raw.
The end be the goal,
but the journey be the
reward, or so they say.
Do they lie?
Do they deceive in that which
we boil? Our kind is
the layer that props the world,
our blood the grease
keeping the cogs of progress
rotating. Are we fed a lie?
Or do we eat greedily,
deliberate in our ignorance?
Grateful scraps fill us
and grateful dead we become.