Friday, April 20, 2012

The King Is Dead

Under the light of a darkened moon
and led by wordless prayers as though to battle,
I rode a nameless horse, a broken sword,
and dreamed a dream of royal death.

I saw him fall on marble tiles, on his knees
pleading to be spared. I saw his body dragged
into the streets like a splinter drawn out from
a fingernail, finally facing his people.

There was no moratorium, no trial by jury.
Their hands tore him apart like paper. 
Some cut his body parts off to feed their dogs.
But none of the dogs dared to eat him.

The king is dead!
The king is dead!

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