The Darksome King

Dark the countenance,
grim the frown
Shadowed eyes, like pits do gape---
a bloodless maelstrom
Steepled fingers uphold
the sagging crown
Bowed by worries dark,
the head sags, throat bobs
Gold pass’d to silver
to iron black
Ashen grey the crown
And dust the robe
that bleeds but chaff!

At ead of board he sits
Wise, his craven thanes
For dare they not the honor
of his rings’ dread hold

He is the lord of the horde
master of a massive hoard
Many boar-bristles at his beck,
a hundred spits at his call
Much spittle doth fleck
the fangs of the wolves at his knees
Stormcrows, the shadows prowl,
upon the wing
Beneath the pinion of the throne,
carrion-blood they drip

Melancholy breakst not,
A sigh keens from winter’s heart
Though on his cracked lips,
Shines a smile
The smile of a sword unsheathed