Her Son, a king
Grow across the empty sky.
Void of flowers, tell the time.
Entering the sleepless mind,
to sell another point of view.
Stars pale, no shape to hold,
they interrupt and enfold
prey trapped upon the platter.
Let no feelings enter here,
rain eats the truth of the matter.
Left among a barren field,
the king whom has no throne
is tossed amongst the thorns
to cut the roses dead.
The king is fair, the king is just.
They just have no sense of trust.
Lay across the empty bed.
Close his eyes, rest his head
in the mother's womb.
What to nourish, what to feed,
in this milk to save the king?
What is justice shall she sing,
as she weeps upon the grave.
Author's Note:
This is one of my really old poems. I wrote this many years ago when I still wrote everything by hand in a notebook.
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