His imagination
was a multi-tiered tiara of
themes and tropes and plots,
his skull crowned in a cumbrous
of characters
all struggling in unrest,
screaming for their voices to be heard,
wanting their stories told, no matter
how obscure and anonymous
in their high-fantasy high-rise penthouses
or their gritty ghetto alleyways
of realism;
yet, through neglect and age,
diversion and decay,
genre-gang violence and civil war,
trope infighting and
work ethic entropy,
that skyscraper-crenellated crown
toppled and crumbled,
beset by plagues of
personal turmoil,
quaking faultlines of
time schedules and menial hours,
and that great destroyer of all worlds,
and, through these natural catastophes
and simple attrition to
that metatropolis
succumbed, degenerating to nothing more than
flights of fancy,
all lost to the fog of
That overburdened monarch,
mobbed by the fomenting rabble,
abandoned his city-crown
and went into the Elysium of
exile, hearing the
vox populi
no more.

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