The King is Dead

Night slips its weight around you,
your quieting mind to fill you feel compelled,
you cast your silk covered arms and scars wide open
and fashion the image of a reflected self;
but the ties that bind
soon strip away your porcelain skin
and your fragile heart
lays bleached beneath a smothering sun;
all while the lure of loves nectar
entices you forever forward, singing;
“The King is dead,
long live the next one”.

© D. Archer. September 2012

Type something here preferably in English

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