The King of the Hill

All human power is a form of King of the Hill
the king of the hill,
the one on top always
there
despite they others
having to drag him down
to get a look
over what
one
can reign over.
On top they say
the air is cleaner
the view more clearer
but smell always drifts up.
Hot air spiced with
the stank of
the swamplands
the burning tires
the acid rain
the long forgotten shopping cart houses
the last drop of famous dilated by
pathetic, unwashed masses.
Climb,
little men.
Don’t look around.
Don’t stick out your tongue.
Ignore the taste of rotten water.
Get the respect from your peers
by pushing others down.
Bruises are temporary.
King of the Hill
for long enough
you might turn eternal
or die and lay
as another skeleton
on the pile of dirt
between the bones
of your forefathers,
mothers, sisters and brothers.
Does it matter
at what height their corpses
got to stop bother?
Layers on layers
of corruption
balanced onto each other
giving the dirt
a framework of stability
for the crowning glory of power.
All systems created by man
turn out the same.
Can’t climb the hill
to become King
if your bags are filled
with the spill
of the people on top.
Are you still playing?
Is this your will?





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