Decay of the Master

Bed ridden stable hand with golden eyes,

deep regret like cancer in his heart.

Antiseptic room with no one to listen,

his story lingering in the air like staled smoke.

 

Speaking in an old tongue of his home land,

only an angel that is nearby is to hear it.

A tale best left in history,

But his soul must make amends with his God.

 

A silver haired boy under a gauntlet of cruelty,

A country at ends grip of sanity,

insufferable acts of viciousness by this ruler.

Villages wiped out under the moon’s aid,

citizens left to rot in salted fields in march.

 

His eyes barren of tears for these hateful memories,

his hands slightly quiver from the eternal pain.

Help ending a races’ existence on earth,

opening the window of attack on their soil.

 

Winter’s infernal blast sent him to death’s door,

surviving with only hate for those around him.

Bleeding dry the shrines of Aphrodite,

wearing a bronze mask to hide his scars.

 

Countless whispers in the gloomy fog of night,

a dozen loyal heroes lay dead by his voice.

Falsified papers sending nobility to the gallows,

a single razor tipped dagger brought the kind down,

merciless in appearance in the emerald sunlight.

 

Laying in his rigid bed,

Broken and alone with his torment.

A soul that never gave up the grief over a male lover.

Betrayed in his youth by the other’s act,

now is too late to be redeemed or to forgive.

All he wanted was his love,

his golden eyes close to rest for a spell.