The King is seated at his throne
He has riches beyond belief
A crown is placed atop his head
And yet, his heart is filled with grief
A castle all to himself
A Queen most fair, yet vain and cold
Who encouraged his greatest regret
All his innocence has been sold
For a murder haunts his past
He cannot forget his blood-stained hands
As he plunged a dagger into the Former King
Immediately regretting his selfish demands
But a deed is a deed, what's done is done
And now the titles he beholds
But not a speck of happiness
He sits, his face as hard as stone
Yet the funny thing about murder is
It can never be silenced
One led to another and another again
Nothing feels right, even after his gain
And as he sits down at his throne
Not smiling wide or counting sheep
“What have I done,” he whispers,
as he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep
And no one can tell
if he burns in hell
Or maybe for once
he is at peace
A.H.
I wrote this in Grade 7 when we were doing MacBeth for English Literature.
YOU ARE READING
Krystal's Book Of Poems
PoetryJust some of my poems, written through ages ten to current. The first few ones are older and the most recent ones are new.
