The King with his Coronation Crown

In the ruins of a castle of old,

a fierce battle had just been won.

The bodies were left to rot in the keep;

we had a party in the yard.

There was light and music and dancing men

as they toasted to their new king,

who had lost an arm in the fight they won.

No one worried about it, though.

Through the light and color and smoky haze,

I saw the king get off his chair,

walk gray-faced through his own celebration,

and slowly enter the stone crypts.

The last time he came out of those caverns,

he had left his sword arm below.

I snuck through the crowd and followed the man,

unsure was I of his motives.

In the darkness I saw the ancient throne.

Bodies were strewn on the stone floor,

where darkness and death became their last friend.

My king was staring at his foe,

once the ruler of a beautiful realm,

now a king of maggots and flies.

I saw him sit down on the worn-out chair.

He sighed like a tired, old man.

He cringed with pain and clasped the old king's hand,

and there, on that chair, did he die.

His life blood flowed from his arm to the floor,

melding with his predecessor's.

The blood shined on the floor like a new wax,

and for one still moment in time,

the dead rose and applauded their new king,

the King with his Coronation Crown.

I watched, cloaked in shadow, until he died,

then I walked through the spectators

and lifted my king's body from the chair.

He didn't groan, he didn't mind.

He let me take him back to the surface,

where the light and music still danced.

Though the king was light, his followers' eyes

made my steps heavy and solemn.

The courtyard was still ablaze with color,

and for reasons I could not grasp,

no one saw the body in my small arms.

I brought him to my wise father

to ask him what to do. He said,

'Spread the word through forest and town

with a voice that will raise the dead from their graves,

for two great kings have died today.'

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