Wraith King
Cunning eyes of a burning fox,
Wisdom of the adamant ancient tree,
Riveted tongue of stashed lighting
Buried in deafening thunders,
In a dapper veneer; a guise
He had once been a king
But his own brewed tyranny
Ousted him from his regality
And his putrefying power
Is gravid from suppurating
The things that his empire
Gnawed and swallowed
Dour without his cape,
His gilded diadem,
His valiant sword,
Or his vast sovereign
He is a brand new king
Of his own ethereal grounds
Of the old and the dying
He built a new kingdom
Looming before his sun
Cascading like a gray curtain
Of the somnolent scene
Averting his sweltering eyes
Bastion of pseudo-sanguinity,
Turrets of superimposed arrogance,
Sentries of pent-up dread,
And soldiers of rues and regrets
He was a king of slaves
And a slave of his kingdom:
A widower of his power
His queen, his prince;
His proud herald of wealth,
All pawned for the buoy
Of his vigor and verve
Of his power and monarchy
And these possessions he seized
Whilst they bolted him in a room
Where bliss is but a colossal cloud
Made of temporal and lenient gases
A dominion that lurks and mangles
In the shadows of undulating slumber
And slurred wakefulness of inebriations
What a farce decadence it was
To juggle in opposing poles
A tragic phantasms of kingdom
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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