Sadly the Kingdom has awoken
to a doomed dark Sunday-
Like the spirit in the wind,
the king arose with wings of
a majestic dove. Prayers
are endless, dark clouds
casting a sea of nothing.
But by the sheer luck the doomed
kingdom will not despair,
with demise, shall be named,
unmarking deter flowing
deep in the depth of the
sea, muddle by betrayal-
the people, the kingdom,
the palish face of his queen.
Dumbfounded by sheer shock.
To remember he, not to
quick and settle on
appearance, not pleasingly
to the queen's eye, granting
respect for respect
shall be received. Wisely
they have kindly, with
the queens gestures, it was
array that he who follows
in the kings footsteps,
shall wear the crown of glory.
From its people. Mystified,
in the silent house, gazing
at the reflection of a
mirror, at a palish face.
Alone by the sudden overtake,
panic dwells within, the
people shall receive their
new King. The desert shall
rain in the spirit of his
presence. Now he's all but
a legend.