I stand upon a body
Broken beneath the grain
A field of broken memories
Can I ever be the same?
Lifting up my sword
Stained with red of forgotten days
My minds a harmony
Of twisted broken praise
They cheer out for a soldier
They call out my name
As I murder the poor people
Fire set a blaze
Is it I who is the killer?
Is it I who's been slain?
Am I the victim in this tale?
Am I even sane?
I walk out if the pit.
My feet sore from the travel.
I take another look down at the village
Only gravel.
They cheer for me when I return.
No one shows a single concern.
The red King has at last sat upon his throne.
A throne made from bodies he has overthrown.
I take a deep breath in.
Trying to clear my mind.
But the blood shed of the battle field.
Makes me feel so happy inside.
YOU ARE READING
The Story Of The Red King
Thơ ca"Our Former King Harold Dawson recites his time as king through poetry" The Red King is a "children's" poetry book taking place inside the world of Hellbent following the tales of Harold Dawson and his past.
