I see the past as a brighter place, noble friend
Beyond stone walls and castles old
Where hypocrisy hides in velvet’s embrace
And troubadours sing of love and sorrow bold
Life then was clear, as abundant as mead
Rich with jousts, tournaments, tales to reveal
From the heavens above to the stone floors beneath
We rode without reins, our spirits free

Love, like a magical potion, made us dre...

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It's a beauty to see a bird bouncing from the fields
to take a flight with its mighty wings... 

One of them can fly just over the mountain, 
and hastily come back to its hollow nest... 

The other one has the power to kiss the sky, 
and fetch the pearls of heaven... 

Their King let's the former to exploit its mightiest might, 
and the latter is left to fate with paralysed wings...

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A bow to The Poetry King,
who thinks he doesn't 
mean a thing 
in the grand scheme.

Wears his heart 
on stained sleeve,
makes paupers feel
like royalty.

Waxes poetic about 
life, love, and history
that would otherwise remain 
unsolved mysteries.

More than just a dream,
The Poetry King
lives eternally,
in you and me. 

https://youtu.be/0FT3SmZ_zx0

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A King
Is the ruler of man
A King
Is admired protector
A King
Is wise in his decisions
A King
Sits on a thrown placed there by God
A King
Inspires
A King
Uplifts

What is a King?

It is not children
Arguing over a legacy

It is not greed
A down payment on history

It is not a family name
A generation brings it to shame

It is not selling tickets
To a path paved by dog bite...

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How easy it is to judge 

from the throne of 

self-righteousness. 

How comforting to

cast off what 

doesn't fit our

moral code.

Perspective is 

colored by our own 

evolution and lingering 

insecurities.  

The soul of a scribe

cannot help but 

share truths

that set spirits

free, no matter 

the cost of their 

own liberty. 
 

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Good people of this Christian land,
Here before you now I stand
And come me hither I, to die,
For by the law condemned am I,
And not a word in protest muttered,
Let not a ‘treachery’ be uttered,
These lands demand my soul depart,
By pain of death and muted heart.

For at thy King’s pleasure, ‘tis true,
I soon, to take my leave of you,
I pass not blame, nor beg for life,
...

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King 1 - Queen 2

Wath - Queen of Villages reigned

in her flower garden

her turnip grubbing fields

her pig pens and her byres

subjects tugging forelocks

native speech a country slide

years before the pits

-

When Wigan coalpits died

the King - black in workings underground

emerged in Wath to drag her subjects down

drawing men across the border

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