A time of repent, The Renaissance
In a quaint town resides a convalescent man.
No job. No family. No crown.
His luck had run out.
Impious, yet he sat on a throne
Waiting for that castle to fall,
Turn to dust beneath him
The man who spread false prophecies,
Genuflects before the altar
He had been cast to perdition
No longer would he drink from his golden chalice
In a cloud of illness,
The plague brought many to the underground
Who else resides in these streets besides the cold?
A serpent slithers below the peasantβs feet
The King has fallen,
And so, man ceased to exist.
The glistening of a star in the quiet sky,
The stinging pain in his left eye
For how long he must live in anticipation
Of when it will sting again?
Plagued by a lifetime of sleepless nights
He reached out a hand only to find
Whatever he wished for,
Was long out of his grasp
All that was left was the silence
That suffocated him
A depraved and unforgiving silence,
Yet he wouldn't utter a word of opposition
And the pain began to sting even more,
And he was finally silenced,
Just as he thought he would live forever
But he was no more than a speck of dust in the great wind
Which swept him off the face of the earth.