The Cold, Cold Ground
He might have been a great king one day,
but now that day would never come.
And The Peaceful King had nothing to say;
now that the world had taken his son.
‘Ashes to Ashes,’ they said, or words to that effect.
The Peaceful King was numb with grief
and sought only to disconnect.
‘Dust to Dust,’ were the bones of his child,
laid to rest with his mother mild.
And what would she say if she heard what was done,
in the name of her beautiful, kind-hearted son?
The anger was taking hold of him,
and he was gradually allowing it in.
And when it did finally succeed to consume,
The Grieving King would be lost in its welcoming doom.
He stared down into the cold, cold ground,
thinking his son would shiver and shake.
‘He needs a blanket,’ his voice did resound,
surprised it did not waiver and break.
‘Come, your Majesty, we should retire;
return to the castle and rest.
There is much to discuss, for much has transpired
in these days which doth put you to test.’
‘I feel beyond caring,’ The Grieving King said,
‘for how can I live in this kingdom alone?
I feel I am cursed, from my feet to my head.
Without my family, my heart becomes stone.’
‘Then punish these people, my Lord and my Liege.
Bring down their strongholds by fire and by siege.
Use what thou art feeling to make the world atone.
Sated only with vengeance is a heart of stone.’
The Angered King nodded, eventually agreeing:
‘I will punish these traitors with the fire of my being.
No more questions, no more lies,
no more secrets and no more spies.
We start tonight with Baronstown,
but by the time I am finished...
I will burn them all down.
Let them scream and let them resound,
and let my son wring their necks in the cold, cold ground.’