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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Poison Chalice

The chalice gleams in candlelight,

a promise held in polished gold.

Its lip is carved with delicate grace,

a secret story to be told.


The brew within is dark and deep,

a velvet shade, a liquid dream.

It whispers of a sweet relief,

a taste of things that only seem.


But in its depths, a shadow lies,

a bitter truth, a final cost.

For every sip, a piece is paid,

a precious part of what was lost.


And all who raise it to their lips,

in thirst for power, or for grace,

will find the sweetness turning sharp,

the serpent's sting, the bitter chase.

So let it stand, a silent test,

a lesson carved in metal's face.

That what is beautiful on the outside

can poison all it can embrace.


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