Sunday, October 26

The Last King

    Like the drifting withered leaf,
    Crumpled and dry as it sweeps
    Down the tree’s limb in agony.

    Like a ship sinking into the never ending sea:
    A tomb sunken twenty leagues deep.
    Silent, not a whisper seen.
    Her corpses: rotted flesh is her ecstasy.

    Like the leaf of the tree,
    Without a sound, no one can see
    The light escapes between the scene.
    Only anguish for this last reigning king.

The Last King by K. Saitta © 2014, A Walk In Verse