The blank, the dark waves
surrounding, bleeding
I am losing
The war, the will
it burns,
ashes and wind
flowers grow
for dead tyrants and the blessed alike,
the truth, the difference
is in the shadow of belief.
History,
a kings coloring book,
an idiots guide.
Beguiled and crooked
we stumble when we should fly.
We, the footless peasant
We all pray that kings
colored inside the lines.
Some of us chuckle....
Knowing
The only crayons he ever had
were green and red
It is possible that this is rather two poems but it was written all at once so I left it this way