A king with no queen
He stand's in his castle;
Of celestial thing's.

A beau with none candle's
To lighteth his black room;
Moribund he lies, awake to his tomb.

A knife and a spoon
To chop at his skin;
He left all behind, for one to cometh in.

An axe to his heart
Stake to his brain;
Promises himself, not to look for any queen again.

Though he still wishes
For hopeless romance;
He dies alone daily, a regular prance.

Prancing his garden
Up upon the English hill;
Now he's forgotten romance, as him others hath killed....


©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Brandon nagley