Fallen Monarchs-William Bliss Baker
Brilliant light illuminates
Kings of the Glen,
though some lay dormant
their lower subjects garnishing them in green.
Once their royal shroud
now their epic demise.
Amidst them
a sad lone youth of no color
no future.
So close to
cool gloomy liquid.
Strange that this be nourishment,
though it seems the season,
demands respect from all pilgrims.
Cut from a life of promise
through weapons that can't leave it be.
Did the creator see himself?
Did he know he would never be a Lord?
His fall coming before other royalty.
Himself he might have seen,
cohabitant with all at vibrant twenty-seven.
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