Short Poem: Fallen King

The king stood, all but dead,
his crown heavy on his head

And his sword was pointing right at you—
you’re the lord of death.

The king stooped old with age,
body grown into a cage.

Nobody at his side but you—
you’re the lord of death.

And when they lay him in the ground
underneath a muddy mound,
will there be someone left to mourn
for the fallen king?

Either way a new heir will be born
to the fallen king.

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