A mixture of ash and dust
floats down from ceiling.
From rusted chandelier to
stone.

He sits at the top
of a long hallway,
the tapestries guiding visitors to the
throne.

Greying sideburns, hand too weak
to do much as lift his key ring—
the keys that most define as a
sword.

He makes no eye contact
while you kneel on his dust,
more focused on how his wine is
poured.

Look upon your king
Despise if you must
He has overstayed his welcome

He lifts his head
Bones shuddering
Voice that makes any man feel his thirst

“Odiet dum metuant”