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 Hour Glass

Upon the shelf of ages, tall and thin,

A glass of life, where all our days begin.

The upper bulb holds shining, shifting grains,

The promised years of sun and sudden rains.

A tiny throat, a narrow, measured stream,

Where every falling grain is a lost dream.


First, slow and steady, childhood's languid pace,

A long, soft wait in time's indifferent space.

But then the middle, where the flow quickens,

As tasks pile up and the heart often sickens.

The sand flies faster, memories start to fade,

A life consumed by promises unmade.


The bottom swells with all that's come to pass,

Reflecting back what was held in the glass.

A heavier weight, a darkening of tone,

The quiet knowledge that you're not alone.

At last, the final grains descend and fall,

The hourglass has answered its own call.

No turning back, no starting all anew,

Just silence settling where life flowed through.



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