A proud king sits upon his throne
Cast out to the horizon
His closed eyes settle on the foam
Thought and belief are out of sight
His greatest victory, now his longest dream
As he sinks below the surface of the world’s seams
His legacy will become whatever the script writers say
Sacred, terrible, vicious, innocent
A myriad of adjectives become stapled to his memory
For all time
Finally, he rests his bones
After lifting heavy mail and sword
Energies that were pressed into missions
Of feudal accord and chivalrous craft
A lifetime of spiritual repast
When the earth has caressed its orbital glow of the sun
A grave will be found, the bones dispersed and swept into oblivion
History – a desperate noun for former times
The archives are dusty, memories are ink
People of the present have no care for yesteryear
They think only in the now, watching others do as they do
Instant gratification and judgement
The proud king of antiquity turns his head from the scene
High above the clouds
So many years it has been
Time has turned apace
In death as in life he feels more could have been done
Watching over the earth
No one has won
By Samuel J.H. Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 