Another sleepless night.
It must be the pictures,
The secret fetish
Suddenly shared with the world.
An Assyrian necrophilia,
With hints of structure,
And militant texture,
All perfectly swirled.
An evening curd,
That once put you to sleep.
A hijacked slideshow,
Ordered to perfection,
With the wounds beautifully focused,
And the hearts invariably blurred.
You have been betrayed,
Taken for a commoner,
Libelled and played.
Even your photographer has been seduced.
Even your lullabies have been spayed.
How complex it must be for a king to fall asleep,
If only you could go back to counting sheep.