The King

​The king sits in the courtyard under the ancient tree.

His throne iron and heavy, pushed by a servant,
His scepter is steel, a strange fruit hanging,
Clear fluid dripping down into his withered hand.
He looks far at his kingdom, tired and weary.
Cold, he clutches his robes of silk and velvet purple.
His castle is brick and glass, pale and foreboding,
Its many chambers sallow and bustling
With dreams and truths, with hope and regrets.
He looks at his subjects, young and old as he,
In their worse, and at their worst, and at their end,
As white ghosts roam endlessly in the hallways.
The king who rules the world, the king who sits,
Powerful yet impotent, resplendent yet impoverished.
The king muses his melancholy under the cloudy sky.
He has had enough for today.
He looks to his servant and they leave
Towards the doors of the great citadel.

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