Like the drifting withered leaf,
Crumpled and dry as it sweeps
Down the tree’s limb in agony.
Like a ship sinking into the never-ending sea:
A tomb sunken twenty leagues deep.
Silent, not a whisper seen.
Her corpses: rotted flesh is her ecstasy.
Like the leaf of the tree,
Without a sound, no one can see
The light escapes between the scene.
Only anguish for this last reigning king.
The Last King by K. Saitta © 2014, A Walk In Verse