The King

A king aged by years of toil and triumph, failure and tyranny His hair white and wispy, a crown of mist over a weary head His lips blue from the winter frost, no warmth remains The king who sits upon a throne of iron and stone, cold and barren Lies his land, ravished and raped are the memories of what once was His head drops over a chest of bone covered with a white skin sheet Failure has consumed all he was, and all he could ever be For in a tattered past there were flowers and fields, a radiant sun The sun has been washed out by tendrils of black cloud The flowers stiff and brown, the earth dry and cracked Nefarious imps plot and scheme for meaningless toggles and gems A world broken, as the man, retiring from this life