It is what it is.

He ascends to the throne,

But his crown is wrought of harsh words and weighs heavily on his brow.

Red beads along its sharp edges,

And the crowd that hailed him stands transfixed, watching the barbs bury themselves in flesh.

He bleeds under their scrutiny, their judgment;

He waits for the day when their hands finally pull him down.

When they do, the nails scratch at him, tear into him, drain what's left of him

As he is dragged from throne to scaffold.

The crowd that raised him up is the crowd that brings him low;

The crowd that crowned him is the crowd that kills him,

And as the guillotine slices through flesh and bone,

This man is forgotten in search of the next.