The King is dead

.

.

.

 

Lullabies, peculiar things

 

The rain’s steady, beating drum

tick tock on the wooden floor

and the swing swing of the sewing machine just beyond the door

as it spins another hot meal from the sweat upon a worried brow

a lone figure, hunched over,

standing tall

 

Sometimes a silent night is filled

with stories of princes and kings

Knights dragons, righteous deeds

If only stories empty tummies fill

 

And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Could not combat the onslaught of cancerous cells

 

One last story

-

one day the knave will be a king

-

 

Tiny hands held in trembling palms

a sacred promise of things to come

the voice became a whisper

and then left a memory, only

***

Promises, dangerous things

 

once given, bound until broken

once broken, forsaken until forgiven

Forgiveness is a flitting ideal, few possess

certainly not him,

kingdoms break upon promises broken,

what more memories laid to rest

 

The steps he climbs are treacherous, daunting

Weighed down by chains wound around his mind

his ascent is hounded by jealousy and loathing

Hissing serpents demand his servitude, whispering

royal blood ensures a smooth transition to the throne,

but what he didn’t know was blood can be bought and sold

his soul,

 

Rejoice! Blood price paid, robed in pride and glory

he bursts forth from obscurity onto the parapets,

to be greeted by derision and empty promises on paper

 

A long shadow has fallen upon the ivory tower

 

Wither now his happily ever after?

 

***

Fate, curious thing

 

Fluid it flows, carrying us hapless

to crash upon the rocks or safe shores of destiny

On the tide floated deadwood,

drifting,

eyes closed, arms askew,

 

wandering

 

wandering

 

An old riddle repeats again and again

royal blood does not a king make,

who then shall wear the gilded crown, if not one for that purpose born?

nay he remains only a knave

for a kingdom he has only his name – no weight

 

an old riddle repeated again and again

the most petulant princes proud

croon that they must deserve the crown

for their blood is blue and by that virtue

the claim to the crown is sound

 

Nero plays on whilst Rome burns to the ground

***

Rain drops -

tik tok on a hard wooden floor

a gentle smile, worry creased brow

a knave and a king, a spirit that soared

- don’t fall, stand tall

a barely remembered song, a sewing wheel

turning round round, sings again softly in his ears

***

Rain drops -

fresh cut grass and flowers frame

the silent white stone for his father named

and the blowing wind barely whispers at all

- stand tall, stand tall

 

There will come a day, he’ll come into his own

then he’ll wear the crown, and sit upon the throne

 

…Long live the King

 

Ksatriya is an urban poet and musician. He is currently working on a new track entitled Salam. Find his work on Tumblr and Facebook.