A tale I sing
Of a glorious king,
Beneath the arch of stone.
His fierce blue eyes
Still pierce the skies,
Though youth from him has flown.
His beard is long.
His back is strong.
His smile still is knowing.
With each new day,
He tries to stay
With time as it is flowing.
Like iron bands,
His steady hands
Complete their daily chore.
With ink and pen,
And time again,
He writes it down once more.
His face, it shows
Just what he knows.
He knows his time is nigh.
And in the west,
Like a gold crest,
The sun sinks in the sky.
The king is dead.
They lay his head
Amid the leaves and earth.
His son stands by,
And starts to cry.
He hopes to prove his worth.
The son stands tall
In front of all
And takes his father’s pen.
And with a nod,
He thanks his god,
And writes it down again.
Sing, oh sing
Of the glorious king
Beneath the arch of stone.
Sing of the son,
His task not done,
Who sits upon his throne.
©andrew_sd
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