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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Trees In The City

 

In forests of glass and steel,

the modern trees take root,

with silent, deep foundations,

and branches reaching for the sun.


Their trunks are polished granite,

their bark a shimmering facade,

each window a small leaf

that glitters in the urban shade.


They whisper with the wind,

a low and humming drone,

of elevators rising,

of whispers on the phone.


Through veins of tangled wires,

and pipes that carry life,

the current flows and pulses,

relieving daily strife.


No nests are built within them,

just floors of busy hive,

where human dreams and dollars

struggle and survive.


They do not shed their foliage,

or sleep through winter's chill,

they simply stand and prosper,

obeying human will.


And though no birds may sing there,

or squirrels climb their height,

they stretch toward the heavens,

and catch the fading light.


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