TITLE: Kingdom of Rust 1/21/15
By Weeping Skye
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castle walls it seems are dust,
breaking up, then falling down,
on my head a rusted crown.
Broken scepter in my hand,
an empty Kingdom I command
faithful subjects it seems have left
to my demands they are now deaf.
I sit upon this wretched throne
and rule this empire all alone,
moth and rust did eat away
and left behind their ruined decay.
Emptiness, in vain denial
I hide behind a crooked smile
and look upon the heap of rubble
these precious treasures of hay and stubble.
I sit in darkness all alone
for I’m shackled to this rusted throne
and peer beyond yon window sill
a wooden cross upon a hill.
“Sell these things and follow me”
those haunting words it cannot be,
“and there are treasures” I am told
in a Kingdom made of gold.
In my sadness I would turn,
and to my kingdom I returned,
but do not fret nor pity me,
for to these shackles...I’ve the key.
But I chose to rule this rust
until this body returns to dust
how wretched, unfair, life can be
when my kingdom is but me.
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