Conquest

Like rain on a blanket
of untouched white snow,
I must now drop ink
on these innocent pages.
The naïveté of unbesmirched
sheets is a wall and a bully
how could my hand fight
against their collective might?
I must be the rogue;
through treason and subterfuge
I lessen their numbers
and then as the bohemian
convert those lying on the fringe
to my side, my religion.
When there is but a small legion left,
I will be the cannoneer and the legionnaire
destroying the final formation with a finesse
that will surely break their ranks.
Then
when all that remains
is the king's court
I am the assassin:
the few, final pages drink
in the poison of my thoughts
I commit the final act of regicide
with a gleaming word blade
and put on his crown.