poem #7 (2)

 

... 

One February day,

The castle which the king had built, 

Collapsed in its entirety, 

As if it were made of silt. 

The King was gone. 

In my youth, 

I thought it was a trick. 

That someone had orchestrated some cataclysmic con; 

But as I grew, 

I realised that every reign must fall. 

Before the funeral that would take place at noon that day, 

We were sent away. 

Away to another castle, 

A castle not made of the familiar cement and red brick. 

The box that carried the kind to his Elysian Field, 

looked so grand, 

and I felt so little. 

Next to the queen he lay, 

and that day, 

for the first time in years, 

it rained; 

a rarity in the city by the sea. 

The next few days passed by as if a blur, 

The villagers came and went. 

They paid their respects, 

And we greeted them, 

with polite,

fake smiles. 

The potpourri in the credenza has since lost its scent, 

And cracks have begun to form in the cement. 

Whilst I often come back to the city by the sea, 

I know that the king and queen will not be waiting for me; 

In our castle made of cement and red brick, 

In a city by the sea.