The Akkadian

kings and queens have bowed to your good graces,
painted their faces,
and made merry in your glorious name,
your despotic reign,
but tonight, your death comes,
it comes not in the wine poured by the precious girl
you "rescued"
from the harem of your enemy,
it comes not in the shape of a dagger,
well hidden until the last,
beneath the guise of a smile on a trusted friend's visage,
all who have seen your purpose,
who have witnessed your prowess
both on the battlefield,
and off,
have come to see your righteous claim
coupled with your royal name,
as synonymous with death,
but with sudden breath,
death does come,
for you this time,
on padded feet,
between pillars of stone that no one guards,
loping casually across the graves and burial mounds
that frighten even the most steadfast of your soldiers,
your elite will not even fight there,
and from thence comes your death,
at last,
on padded feet,
with supple breasts,
barely dressed,
but ready to kill,
the Akkadian comes,
out of the sands that would bury her history,
she comes padding,
shallow breathing,
the beauty is in the deceiving,
and the tokens of your fall that she will be leaving,
your drained body,
bloodless,
likened to how you are heartless,
her blades, so cruel,
sparing no limb except to sever it from your torso,
leaving you defenseless in the otherworld beyond,
your breath
against her lips,
your death,
and your glory,
rips
from the pages of history,
a man who would be king
of all he sees,
would-be conqueror of the known lands,
finds death at the hands
of the Akkadian.