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
Copyright © Grant Hill | Year Posted 2015
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