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 Lost Child

 Your absence is the furniture,

placed just so in every room.

The silence wears my slippers,

and moves in a familiar gloom.

The air's edges are swept,

where a soft body used to be.

Dusting the unread books,

and watering plants that still see the mother.

The years will heal, people say,

that wounds will fade to scars.

But the hole left is growing,

a dark and hungry jar.

And every kind word feels like a stone

dropped in a well that has no end.

The surface is unreachable,

silence will not bend.

The child was the sun that warmed a face,

and now the mother lives beneath the shade.

And this deep and endless night of grief

is the home a heart has made.

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