While The Throne Sits Empty

This I beheld on a soldier’s shield:

Some distant city under siege.

Amid smoke in the night breeze,

The king from his kingdom has fled.

One last guard left standing at the gate,

Choosing between duty or life forefeit.

Blood flows and dark comes over the eyes,

The good guard falls along the spear he plies.

A girl with bloody hands and bloody feet,

Being dragged by her locks down a bloody street.

Tender hands that picked flowers,

And lofty locks which they adorned.

Little feet that hopped along unhurried,

Down the bustling street to her home.

A decrepit old man sitting alone,

Forgotten in a house on fire.

A babe freshly plucked from the bossom,

Hurled from atop the city wall.

Both of them cursing themselves,

Too young, too old, too weak…

Woe assails the distant city,

While the throne sits empty.