By Sherlock Crockett

Hope makes people sad.

So decreed Fate when it descended from the mountain

to bury all in ash and dust.

And so it was,-

 

If only a cry could have been heard

with sinful skin cleansed of its nature

would the Queen not be mired in her treachery?

The young King’s gentle lovely lullaby

now just a requiem.

 

The Queen-

no, the Empress, who conquered the world,

decided there was no good in living for her people.

And thus, she decreed that there would be no breathing for her people.

And so it was.

 

The King, christened with a scarred third eye

of thorns plucked from a rose,

could have been the saint that never came.

Alas, he’s just a fraud,-

 

He dreams asleep now,

attempting to envision a new world where he could be a better king.

Sometimes visions of the Queen tear through his bliss

his highness’s hopeful happiness

now just a nightmare.

 

Quiescent

resting petrified people poised to

pray to a saint that could never rectify their lost cause.

Alas, the hatchet cut him short.