The pale white king on his horse looking up at
the aerolites burning above in the greene sky
leads the lamentatious cavalcade down the street.
Following come the children of Eden through a
raging storm of bayonets pointed down by the
king's soldiers and his fleet of paper salesmen.
Next will come a poet with drums beating to the
rhythms of the morning's dawn's sleeping blue garden.
In the sundered sea of red comes out a prophet
from the bank, a thief before coming home to you.
Stolen everything from his father, everything
he could carry thrown down a dark city alley.
A bowling ball rolling down the cobbles coming
to a stop at the feet of a mugger with a
million names a long way from home telling him to
feel grief over the loss of his newly dead son.
The pale white king's tongue laden with heavy black lead,
unable to speak of this sorrowful feeling.
The royal roads, crooked and vague, running north towards
the king's castle, burning yellow with sun during
the long winter's last snow before the spring's first rain