The Fall Of Aethelgome Poem by Christian Muller

He hears the horns beyond the wooden walls.
And feels the march of fiending hordes. Drums that beat
Within his sunken chest. He longs for halls
Of mead and merry men. How far and sweet
Those days that plague his mind. How long he fought
To keep those dreams within the realms of real.
How many burghs he lost? And battle fraught
With screams of youth beneath the singing steal.
Those braves who dared to call him king. Now feast
For crows 'neath rotting sky. That nobly died
So his grey hair could feel a final east,
Upon a frozen burgh. That well defied
So many waves of blood. But now the grave
For weary wighes who die to guard this brooding knave.