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 Sack of Rome

Beneath a bruised and sulfur-colored sky,

The bronze gates clang, a final, iron sigh.

The papal flag hangs limp, a pious plea,

Above the crowd's dark, tide-like misery.

Within the city, fountains weep and play,

As rumors like a fever spread all day.

The painted saints upon the ceilings gaze

At earthly fear, through gilded, hazy maze.

The pious chant, the merchant counts his sum,

And wonders if the judgment day has come.

Beyond the walls, the camps are stark and wide,

Where German flags and Spanish pikes divide.

The landsknechts, starved, with eyes of bitter steel,

For months of pay their starving bellies feel.

A reeking mist of vengeful hunger hangs,

A promise of the plunder's savage pangs.

A Protestant, whose rage has found a cause,

To break the gilded city’s ancient laws.

His captain, dead, and now no law remains,

To stem the tide of anger and of pains.

The Roman night descends, a velvet drape,

Across the city, fearing its own shape.

The ancient marble shines, a ghastly white,

Reflecting back the campfires in the night.

The Colosseum, hollow, dark, and vast,

Remembers other conquerors of the past.

The Tiber's flow, a silent, knowing stream,

Reflects a broken, fading papal dream.

The city waits, its history immense,

To meet its fate with baroque reverence


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