Prisoners of the Royal Weather

The royal sun illuminates
the spires and cupolas
of our illustrious city.
It reflects brilliantly
from the whitewashed walls
and coruscates blindingly
on the king's gold armor,
yet never does it shine
upon beggars or thieves.
 
They royal wind perfumes
the night with the velvet
of cognac and frangipani.
It tousles the tawny locks
of sacrificial virgins
and dares to rumple
the king's jeweled mane,
yet never does it reek
with the stench of corpses.
 
The royal rain waters
our gardens and limns
the streets with crystal.
It mists like gossamer
in the palace grounds
and washes the stains
from the public square,
yet never does it fall
if the king is on parade.
 
The royal snow is pure
and refreshingly cool
as our lord staggers
with drunken eyes ablaze
from the smoky inferno
of some ornate dining hall.
It blankets the city
with sovereign silence,
yet never does it chill.
 
The royal clime envelops
and mandates all of our days.
And four times each year
often more than that,
the king issues an edict
when the seasons change,
yet never does he forecast
the nature of his tempests
or whom such storms will claim.

Appeared in Weird Tales