He held his head so high
like clouds above the earth
with a voice so level
like water that the tides can’t budge.
With a hand waved, a war was waged
and all would know his might.
His hands are clean
and his back is unburdened
as others bear the weight
as they carry out the orders.
What good is a throne
without envious subjects?
What good is a castle
without ravenous enemies?
What good is a crown
without incredulous gasps?
What good is an army
without ominous signs?
Kings don’t bleed
by the rage of the wicked
nor the blade of betrayal
nor the kiss of the mistress.
When pride is cut
comes royal blood
like a poisonous river
or a molten flood.
His sword presented
and removed from its sheath,
and with love, hate, and indifference
all cry out as it’s lifted.
To war! To death! Together!
The voices rose like his head to the clouds
and by morning came silence
with blood in the wind blowing over
the king as he stood all alone;
blood in the wind and
blood on the throne.
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