Red Carpet to the Guillotine
Under the bleeding chandeliers,
they gather for the nightly farce—Sequined laughter masks the gnawing rot
that grows behind the glass.Every dress stitched by sweat,
every pearl paid for in blood,
These heirs of old disaster, drunk on ruin,
toast in neighborhood mud.The champagne’s vintage,
but the aftertaste is gunmetal and dust,
Gala wristbands cut into skin that’s never worked,
never earned trust.Somewhere outside,
orphans gnaw their knuckles under neon’s glare,
Pressing faces to the limo-tinted windows—are they even there?
Red carpet stretches like a tongue licking boots that trample bones,
Vaults groan with ancestral theft,
vault alarms mute the groans.Kids with crowns of platinum,
sobbing on cocaine sheets,
Drown their shame in private pools,
praying Daddy’s money keeps.A storm of hashtags shreds the night,
but no one hears the wind,
It’s all for show—their charity, their pain, their saints,
their sin.They paid for innocence with NDAs, erased the bodies from the floor,
Hired help erases footprints while the children demand more.
The orphans outside—leftovers, byproducts,
debris—Bear witness as velvet lies pile up as high as any family
tree.Those born without inheritance cut their teeth on broken glass,
Learning hunger’s etiquette, the lessons of the outcast.They
sharpen stories into weapons, bite the hands that never fed,
Breaking into banquet halls to haunt the living dead.Heirlooms
melt in pawnshop fire, auctioned off to ghosts,
While rich kids plan revolutions from their penthouse coasts.
Dress codes for the end of the world: hypocrisy on parade,Gilded invitations sent to every name the city’s ever flayed.They strike a pose for cameras, numb to the city’s cries,Posing for the apocalypse, mascara running, bloodshot eyes.From
behind riot glass, the city’s anger swells and breaks—Sirens wail,
velvet ropes snap, every loyal servant shakes.The mayor takes selfies with the flames,
promises “we’ll rebuild,”But beneath the laughter,
every empty promise is finally billed.
A requiem for privilege, sung in the keys of denial and fear,
Diamond cufflinks traded for oxygen, as the end draws near.In the shadows,
orphans torch the gala, screaming names of the lost,
The last mask slips—red carpets curl,
every fortune double-crossed.The old guard flees in limousines,
gold leaking from their shoes,
Paparazzi click for history while the city comes unglued.It’s
a harvest for the hungry, a reckoning for the bored,
Every last unearned dollar melted down and poured.
The guillotine is not a metaphor—it’s a contract, it’s a meal,
Signed by every child discarded,
every wound that will not heal.Tonight the only
justice is the sound of safes swinging wide,
The only saints are those who starved
while the gala denied.Watch the vaults split open,
count the orphans at the gates,
Every bite of stolen cake returned to those
who waited.End times dressed in designer suits, red with the blood of kings,
When the curtain falls, the ones who never bowed become the things.
In the end, the real parade is out in the ash and bone,Where those who feasted fall,
and those who starved take the throne.They spit out every velvet lie,
they wear the city’s scars,And if there’s mercy left,
it’s somewhere far from where the rich are.