Plagued

    I'll leave 'em all with nothing if that's all I've got left to give.  Let 'em squabble for the last remnants of dust.  I'll rise from my brazen throne and remain the last true man they'll ever witness.  They deliver news like a sentence.  Think they can lay unwashed hands upon me and throw me to the cold.  They want me to fight it.  Years, decades of decadence I've peddled to them, but they still bare teeth at me like I'm some fatted calf.
    They used to need a blessing to walk on the throne's landing, now they dare to face me on my higher ground.  The ones who step to me, their smiles are hid behind the cloth they tied to their faces.  The crowd jeers and shines their teeth.  They like to imagine my captors will do the same.  Truth is, I see the fear.  They've tread on scripture and stepped to God and if they won't answer for it in life they'll answer in death.  The crowd shouts to take hold but I'll not leave without pride.  My captors dare not stand beside me but let me take lead through the crowd.  I walk through the Grand Hall without looking back.  A god looks nowhere but ahead.  After all, it's only a chair.  They leer, they jeer.  I've seen it many times, never from this perspective, but the one thing I notice is they do not throw or spit lest I spit back.
    Laughter echos around the stone like a rogue wind until the gates open and let it fly out like a breeze.  They laugh from a safe distance, thinking I'll trek the world of mud in pelts and chain.  A dead man crossing into the fields where no one has title, ownership, or worth.  But I stand still on a muddy landing and unbuckle the chains.  As the furs fall away so does their laughter.  I stand with back to the iron and stone, speckled in black and bleeding spots.  My feet dig deeper within the mire with every step, but I levy my actions on the stones beneath.  I hear the gates close before I make it to the wood.
    By the time I mount the far hills, ther're nothing but stars in my path above me, but the blades of grass below flicker with an orange light from behind.  The grass sprawls in the wind and mimics the fire.  Whether they celebrate a short-lived freedom or the town burns I care not to know.