In a very distant land I believe there is a
King; he is old decrepit and withered; no
Servants and no Knaves beside him; no
Queen to be the solace of his miserable
Being; he perched upon his throne and
Do nothing but beholds his sank in
Calamity Kingdom; the old tokens of His
Might and Sway may still be visible;
Bearing no power though; his mantle is
Crimson but dusty and shabby;
Somewhere even stiffened and resembles
A crust; his skin is placid and paled and
Peeling with flakes which fall and mound near au pied of his throne; no sounds
Resound but his moans and groans
From pain or from despair or some other
Misery is not known; but the thing that is
True is the fact that he suffers and craves
For the former boons; he wishes his plight
Was restored to that of an ephebe; but
Alas; leave all thy hopes thou King since
Long Ago of Nothing; forsaken is thy
Kingdom, come no prosper to thee nor
Posterity will thrive nor any herb will reside
These barren lands of yours; for we reap
What we sow and when thou sowest
Tempest
Thou shalt reap the sprouts of
Despondency