The Sickness of Power
There’s always a strong one
That is great, Powerful and never left a soul undone
He’s a king, his voice makes angels sing
But his sanity only hangs from a string.
His dark rage is a stirring. A noble sage now a sinister mind unfurling
“My King! My King!” his suffering people shout
“Oh, why cry all about” the king says to his son
Who doesn’t know which mother he’s from.
His heir always looks at the king with eyes so strange. But absolute power makes a man a more deranged. As the king becomes aged, The peoples dire need for the King’s death to be staged. “I WILL NOT DIE! I WILL NOT DIE!” the sick thin madman raged. The king falls to his knees. His last sight is himself, hanging from the trees.
Copyright © Dylan Wilson | Year Posted 2016
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