The Slayed King

  The tyrant on his gilded throne, Ignored the pleas, the tear, the groan. He sowed the seeds of bitter strife, And crushed the hope of common life. The crown that sat upon his head, Was stained with blood the innocent bled. His laughter rang in vaulted halls, While hunger gnawed at peasant walls. But shadows move in quiet ways, And whisper through the endless days. A farmer's son, a widow's child, Remembered all his scorn, so wild. They did not raise a mighty host, Or boast a strength that they could toast. Instead, a single, humble blade, A promise in the darkness made. That night the wind did howl and rage, As actors turned the final page. The wicked king, in fitful sleep, Had secrets that the shadows keep. A whisper first, then cold hard steel, A taste of what the masses feel. No fanfare for his final breath, Just silence and the coming of death. The scepter fell with hollow sound, And shattered on the tiled ground. The crown rolled from his lifeless head, Just one more evi...
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A Girl's Grief

The little girl sits on her bedroom floor,

where dust motes dance in the sun.

She holds a faded photograph and nothing

reminds her that time has run.

She wears the sweater that was once his own,

oversized on her small frame.

It smells of old books and worn-out leather,

and whispers of his name.


The tears that fall make constellations

on the picture in her hand.

Her father smiles, a memory now,

in a quiet, distant land.

She doesn't weep for the man he was,

but for the time they'll never see.


The future stories, the things unsaid,

the forever that won't be.

The world outside keeps turning,

but her small room holds still.

Held captive by a quiet grief,

and a love that time can't kill.


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