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 Sand Storm

 The heat shimmers and bends,

A hazy veil on the sun-baked sand.

Then a whisper, a rustle,

The wind begins its call.

Across the distant, flat horizon,

A smudge of ochre stains the sky,

Growing, rising, blotting out the blue,

A wall of angry, swirling dust. 

The wind becomes a shriek,

A hot and scouring tongue,

As grains of sand, like tiny scythes,

Consume the world in motion. 

No shadow left to hide in,

No color but the storm's own wrath,

As the desert erases itself,

A furious, blinding, golden tide

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