Old kings sit on cobwebbed thrones,
shrines stretching across continents,
each path weaving with broken heart strings
attached to the fallen monistries.
But the old kings are not dead.
They wake from deep in slumber,
stale air separating the dust that dare
lay a hand on the highest order of man.
They never disintegrated to ashes, instead,
they simply overcame it; rising from the
ashes that fuel the eternal flame.
Having previously fallen from grace,
they bow to those still serving, taking
their rightful place among the gods.
Heaven had never looked so deserving.
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Blackberry Thistles ✓
Şiirpoems as delicate as the fruit itself, and as thought-provoking as the sour aftertaste. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Kate H. > third place winner of the gem-mers awards poetry section 2020
