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.
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.
resting petrified people poised to
pray to a saint that could never rectify their lost cause.
Alas, the hatchet cut him short.