Death of a King
I'm writing this, because I feel like I should quit.
I feel like I should just lay down and never get up.
I feel that bliss is overrated, and joy will never find me.
When I look up at the ceiling, all it does is wind me—Up, up, and away I go (at least when up is down).
Appreciation is depreciation, as the atmosphere grows thicker.
I writhe around, but make no sound.
I have fallen down.
Help me, but I won't get up.
Leave me be and then you'll see; I'm a king without a crown.
You can find me in my mind, fighting with my thoughts.
Even contradiction seems to contradict.
I'm salt, without a lick.
A grain of truth will make me sick, but sorrow is the bile.
I thought I had my life on file, but confusion is its new name.
What happens if I do die?
Who will be left to blame?
Appreciation is depreciation, as the atmosphere grows thicker.
I writhe around, but make no sound.
I have fallen down once again.
In the end, I have no beginning.
Grab my hand and you'll understand; I'm just a king without a crown.
Years change and come and go, only this year got lost in translation.
Now even translation is lost, now there's no linguistics.
Without language, how can I speak?
How can I hear everyone else's sound, let alone my own?
The world is now mute.
There's been a failure to communicate.
Depreciation is normalcy, and the atmosphere is gone.
Now I cannot breathe and soon I'll be a corpse.
By now you know, of course, that I have fallen down and won't get up.
You tried to help me; I didn't listen.
So then you left me be.
You have always failed to see, I was sitting on my crown.
It wasn't lost, but by my side.
It's much too late.
I truly can't get up.
While you were busy reading this, I kicked my crown and died.
Copyright © Alex Cheasty | Year Posted 2018
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