The Lines Dissipate


His grief was lost amidst his fury,

and The Sorrowful King was Judge and Jury.

They strapped the bloodied archer to the bench of wood and rope,

and set about relieving him of dignity and hope.


The screams and tears of the dastardly man

were bound to evoke cries of an evil plan.

But The Sorrowful King could hear only his son,

pleading not in his name that this vile thing be done.


‘It is the only way,’ he was duly informed.

‘Through this cruel cleansing, he shall be reformed.

And should Satan see him worthy to sojourn in Hell,

he shall be sure to suffer down there as well.’


So all the while The Good King stood firm

to the fervent belief that guilt would burn

inevitably through the charade of courage.

But The Good King’s idealism was ideally discouraged

as the hours wore on and the torture took place.

The burning irons were like the sun on his face,

as enlightenment rose to gradually replace

his faith in mankind and his hope for an end.

Upon only his violence could he now depend.


He summoned his captains and men of the sword:

‘Round up all those who dost speak untoward.

Question and question and question some more.

And if thou art not satisfied...

Prepare us for war.’

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