The King

He was the rightful king, they’d pray,
and placed on him the crown to bear.
This boy, this child, the only heir,
had politics, not toys, to play.

He was too young, and none too wise,
yet greatness was just his to claim.
A lad that grew to rule and fame,
and soon his golden throne should rise.

The royal mind, though, served a fight,
until from childish dreams he weaned
himself, and drowned all hope in blight.

He knew once friends, now they were fiend,
who would but slaver for his might.
But soon he had them all demeaned.

He was a weary king, they feared.
The castle fell to time and dust.
Left was nothing, but mistrust,
Till one by one they disappeared.

For in his madness, he brought pain
to all he thought himself opposed.
Quick, the death for all that posed
a threat to what he clawed in vain:

This throne, not meant for mere a boy,
A crown that sealed his heart away–
a heart, so frail, so bare of joy,

that it, to all of their dismay,
sought in the end just to destroy
the few that for his sake would stay.

He was a bitter king, they said,
and bitter, true, he ruled.
None, save one, could have him fooled–
The demon’s dream within his head.

His lands then withered far apart,
and, too, so did his mind.
Soon left was no one dear or kind;
just barrens, and a plaque at heart.

His crown stretched big to blind the eyes,
this gilded throne broke coal instead,
He trusted no word, save his lies.

The stitch of soul was bare of thread–
This kingdom came, so its demise.
I was the rightful king; they said.

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