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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The Empire That Once Was

 


The golden eagle, frayed upon the flag,

No longer soars, but sags, a weary rag.

The marble columns, once so strong and proud,

Are cracked by time, beneath a purple cloud.

The aqueducts, a marvel of the age,

Now leak and crumble on a dying stage,

The far flung legions, loyal and arrayed,

Are selling arms for pay they've not been paid.


The borders fray, the barbarians advance,

A desperate plea, a fleeting, backward glance.

Ignoring rot, and muttering of rain.

The poets sing of victories long past,

A fleeting echo on a fading blast.

The emperor, enthroned in silk and jade,

Is but a child in a long charade.


The sun sets on a glory half-remembered,

The gilded age is scattered and dismembered.

The roads are silent, choked with weeds and stones,

The silent, dusty record of their groans.

The common folk, in hunger, pray for sleep,

While history prepares a bitter sweep.

And nothing's left to mend, to save, to hold,

The final chapter of a story told.


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