The old stone walls, the panes of glass, memories displayed.

A tiny chest of treasure, with items kept and saved.

The night is lit by the great white moon,

its beams show strong and clear.

Skeletal remains and tattered wear lie dauntingly in the rear.



It's evident that in this chamber dwelled a king of wealth,

for hanging - looming near,

are relics of the times forgot and bones poised safe from fear.



His crown is glazed with heavy dust and crackled by the cold.

His mouth, a grinning crevice, with teeth caressed by mold.

Two rings upon his bony hand - a ruby rests on each.

The vision of a different world is clotted up in speech.



At least I think he was to speak. That, in my mind, I see.

And so I give my hand to him - a tear falls fast from me.

The pain, the endless torture, still haunts my mind indeed,

As if my miracle of myth there grew an evil seed.



The vines - the thorns that pierce my heart restricting it from beat.

Too wrapped up in delusions to hear, to sleep, to eat.

And so for him, my father the king, I lay in bed and weep.