Withering with the kings, buried, but nay willing.

Seeking with the kings who stood brave, behind masks and shields.

Blazing with a fire of poisonous remains.

Settled on an idea that is unsettled in its core.

Like milk spoiled, and honey rotten.
Like meat bloodied, and mushroom dead.
Like conceptions of darkness that drift like ghosts, unwilling.

Like leaves that fall and do not bother to rise again.

...sitting in a chair, staring at the static on the TV. I laugh once and get a beer.