The Little King.

The chasm-like blackness lies heavy
Like a blanket of soul.
The eating, gnawing blackness
That can never relent.
Timshel the king sat silently,
Pondering carefully the
Perilous flight.
His life was denied.
His kingdom a lie,
A never-ending insurrection of scarred, broken eyes.
He thought he had control.
He thought his feet were planted firmly
On the events of the day.
But he found that he had miscalculated the decay.
His kingdom of hope rebelled,
And became a tyranny of broken dreams.

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