King
The powers of death, what spite they bring,
in their attempt to crown him king.
Now you've passed, and now we care,
asking others: when and where?
While you lived, you were a man.
In death, your time as god began.
Was it worth the price of blood,
to bring them standing in the mud?
And loom o'er ye in chilly rain,
pretending that they are so sane,
wishing they could be with you—
why didn't they while your dreams grew?
Hail to thee! O Glorious King,
at last—do you have everything?
24 April 2016
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2016
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