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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Pain and Sorrow

The shadow wears the sun for a mask.

It rises when the day should end, a hush,

And paints the world in shades of fading gold,

Before it drowns the last triumphant blush.

The pain is not a shout, a single blow,

But slow decay, the gnawing of a mouse.

It takes away the color from the glow,

And leaves behind a hollow, silent house.


This sadness isn't sudden, sharp, or new,

It is an heirloom passed from past to present.

A heavy deadness clinging to the view,

A constant, faithful, unwelcome tenant.

I walk on solid ground, or so I think,

Until a hole appears beneath my feet,

And with a terrifying, sudden blink,

I start a plummet, endless and complete.


The world goes on, a blur of sound and light,

But I am sealed inside a fog of grey.

The laughter of others feels wrong and bright,

A distant land I cannot reach today.

I long for words that never leave my throat,

To name the ache, to make the burden known.

A ship adrift, a silent moat,

And all my grief is mine alone to bear.


So I sit still, a quiet, patient host,

For grief that brings its own humid, tropical heat.

I offer it my time, my life, my most

Vulnerable self, in this slow, aching defeat.

The heart that should be brave is now a drum,

Pounding a sorrow that has no true end.

And in this silent prison, I become

The very wound I try in vain to mend.

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