(a villanelle)

Oh, Ozymandius, do hear me now,
In your glass castle with the door fast closed;
What made you think that to you they would bow?

You scorned their efforts, sneering at their woes,
A mortal man who believed twas a god;
In your glass castle with the door fast closed.

Upon your edicts the people thus trod,
And turned their backs on the king never crowned;
A mortal man who believed twas a god.

When you protested, your words they drowned,
Crushing your values under spite and hate;
And turned their backs on the king never crowned.

Your cities fell under progress’ weight,
Ground into dust and memories of yore;
Crushing your values under spite and hate.

The future you dreamed of is but lore,
Oh, Ozymandius, do hear me now;
Ground into dust and memories of yore,
What made you think that to you they would bow?

(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff All Rights Reserved