A King’s Last Word was Horse
A winter’s king with heart of cold,
A crooked form, a tale untold,
He clambered high on broken vows,
To place the crown on anxious brows.
But shadows whispered, “Never rest,”
With guilt a viper in his breast.
The children lost, the white rose slain,
A fleeting crown, a world of pain,
At Bosworth Field, the final breath,
A lonely fall to silent death.
With shoulder hunched and mind too keen,
He reigned in the brief, darkest scene.
No friends at last to hold the shield,
All alone on a blood-red field.
No noble song, no gentle cry,
Beneath a cold and changing sky.
The crown is gone, the dust remains,
A king of sorrow and of stains.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
