Can you taste the victory?
Your hand is on the table, a high flush.
Grasp it now the voice says.
The world is your puppet.
The end is within your sight.
Your shadow grows, pronouncements become crisp.
Rumors of your reign are gossiped within the Holy of Holies.
Your thrown set, the pawns willing.
Right is the distinction, but not to the end.
Universality a mere political sham.
Reporters and wheels break the barriers without constraint.
This is indeed your time take joy for it will end.
That not being eternal burns in the flames of justice.
Including your petty facade.
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