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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Broken Promises

The air turns brittle when words are said,

and trust is broken, hope is dead.

Each uttered vow, a silken thread,

now snaps and frays inside the head

The future planned, a painted scene,

is torn to shreds, a cruel machine.


The heart a garden, fresh and green,

is trampled on by what has been. 

And though the sun may rise and set,

the bitter taste lingers yet.


A scar on faith, a long regret,

a promise that you can't forget. 

The weight of silence, a heavy shroud,

hangs in the space where once was proud

the easy laughter, strong and loud.

Now only echoes fill the cloud.


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