A Small Kingdom Poem by Patrick Villareal

When feeling small with a battered resolve
My eyes explore the idols in which they revolve
My hands feel old gifts that have turned into tragedy
I sit in an empty kingdom of my pretend majesty
Sinking into a throne made of thorn
This crumbled castle is where I mourn
Broken steps and stools fill the rooms
Grave-less bodies linger in the tombs
Painted scenes have all faded away
A water-less lake shines in the bay
A soldier-less army defends the gate
From a unrelenting sorrow filled with hate
A troubled and powerless king I have
become
None shall sing of me; not man nor a birds gentle hum.