The Life Of A Tyrant Poem by Ella Yaron

Two men sit distanced apart at the table
Gazing at the board lain out before them

Knowing smiles.
Let the game commence

At first, steady,
Careful,
Spectators holding their breath

He’s winning; confidence builds!
For him, it’s just a game

He has no battle plan
Impulsively jabs his horse down

Just to be crushed

He gulps down a refreshment,
Waves at his wavering fans
It’s not his hands that are dirty
For him; it’s just a game

Now the power’s rushed to his head;
Horses, Soldiers, Queens and Kings, long dead
The fans are up in arms
But he can’t hear their cries

There’s blood dripping into the night

But he’s content,
Soon to be in the safety of his bed.