Long Live the King

I still recall the day, like it was now,

His laurel'd brow basked bright in moment's glow

The shine of those who worshiped and adored,

The crowd’s great roar, still I can hear them sing.

Long live the king, their adulation swelled,

A frenzied spell of hope so magical,

It could repel all curses and disease,

A balm appeasing scarred and leprous,

Rash of mistrust like laying on of hands.

I heard the bands play on and dance in time,

Some claimed divine angelic providence,

They read in this the calloused hand of God,

Whose clumsy sweep would undo past mistakes,

And make us greater than we once had been.

Forefathers sin washed clean by cooling rains,

Diluting stains remained from storms less pure.

So calm and sure we were. Now walks our faith,

A ghostly wraith adrift in hindsight’s fog,

Through fetid bogs where language lies to rot,

From half-forgotten promises as they decay.

I still recall the day, the time is now,

When he avowed would come a splendid day,

In celebration of how far we'd come.

Yet, clocks have run, and finally then is this,

Withdrawing bliss like drunkard’s sober dawn.

We carry on, but far less hopefully.

All memory of deeds and triumphs dies.

‘Neath graying skies, diminished summer blooms,

Lie strewn through autumn’s puzzle of debris.

And it must be the king is surely dead,

For they've beheaded him so many times,

Removed his eyes and claimed they could see more.

They've hacked and torn away his legs and hands,

While still demanding he hold up his weight.

He lies in state, a limbless trunk to see,

As we, bereaved, pass by and mourn what was.

"Not quite enough", the grieving sadly say.

Each walks away, so fully unfulfilled,

Their king now killed, they shuffle slowly off,

Some weep some scoff, but neither factions once,

Acknowledge chunks they stole, of vital flesh.

None shall confess, the one essential piece,

They greedily cut free to keep themselves.

"It's someone else’s fault, indeed, the kings!"

Yet lingering the question still remains,

Are we so vain to think we do not lie,

There at his side upon a pyre of flame?

Who bears the shame, who owns the consequence?

No innocence protects us from the ones who rule, 
For fools are royals in their minds, if not by name.