Beautiful Slivers of Granite


Far too many gloves were in the pool
That didn’t bode well for the season ahead
So many of the white robes were plying their trade

Often, in the chill of late afternoon, they would come to the pool
Wasting time, flicking chunks of granite into the waters, making wishes
She often wondered why they did that
This was the upper crust
Certainly it was their right to flick the granite

And she was the judge of them, every last one
So when the pleasant interlude in the courtyard was over
She would resume her place on the highest mound in the room
Sending two or three of the nobles to their dooms

But then, in a month’s time, her decisions would be judged
And she might share a grave with them
Or not

Survive

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