horns

Trumpets resound in thick, brass tones announcing the entrance of royalty, a king. Crown of weighted gold - real - upon his head, the air from these horns lightly breezes the bristles of hair on his neck. He wears a sash encrusted with jewels and as the trumpets resound their last note, the chamber echoes with the energy of all who has come and died before this altar, this throne. Questioning properties forever forbidden from his hall as it actually does not make very good politics for this time period. The king's shoes are new and after crossing his legs, he remains stock-still, gazing at their beauty. A goblet is brought to him. And regards it carefully, looking into the eyes of the page who has brought it - deeply. Resigned, he accepts the chalice and smells the sweet wine within, takes a sip and calls the page back. "Take it away, I am finished with it". His queen has died not long ago. And he feels as empty has the hall is now; echoing, resounding, reverberant with nothing to reflect the noise of the soul off of. Eyes cast downward, nursing his spiritual hangover. What is a king to do, this messenger and representative of God, this god-like being himself, this pure bloodline inbred; What's a king to do when he no longer believes that God exists? How this invalidates his very purpose, his role -

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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