A Royal Funeral


As Arthur and his sword are laid to rest,
The light is gold; that noonday sun is free.
His hands are limp like sullen, soiled clothes
That hang upon a signpost in the breeze.
The warrior’s lips are gray and crackling raw,
His wounds secluded in a floral burst;
Those crimson roses muddier by far
Than midnight’s sanguine lunges, sickly thirst.
Torrential wailing splits the unkind day,
Which never ceases brightly shining strong;
For downpours cannot overcome the birds,
Their twittering cacophony of song.
As sunset falls in lovely mockery,
(a tribute, or a merciless refrain?),
The youth throw back their heads and, weak, beseech,
“Please mourn with us and bless our lands with rain.”
He looks upon this graveyard from above,
His angel eyes now wet with years of grief;
When suddenly our valiant hero wakes,
His sweaty body rigid in the sheets.
The soldier’s eyes explore the regal room
To find his love and tell her of his ill,
But terror grips the king’s good heart once more,
His love won’t wake, she’s pale, cold, and still.

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