[A poem i wrote off the top of my head yesterday originally posted on François Villon Contest thread]
His King is Dead
His King is dead, His army is defeated.
His city burns in ruin.
He stands watching helplessly.
Frozen in time and space.
He is unable to fix, the damage that has been done.
He can not claim a victory, this is a battle that has not been won
All hope is lost,
In the flames of his lost King.
His city lost, his army too,
And nothing he could ever do
He stands and watches
Tears burn his eyes
As the flames engulf,
what was left of his pride
His King is dead, His army is defeated
He walks away, shoulders slumped over
His feet drag in the ash,
that was once a beautiful city
That once had a king,
that once had an army,
that once protected his city
where people use to live in harmony
But now nothings left, but ash, regrets and loss
Oh, and only him
Don't forget about him
He is left to wallow in his sorrow
Of the greatest loss of all
As he stood there and watched helpless
As the crimson king made the tower fall