by Nick Gisburne
No mortal could survive this tainted place
He staggers through its poisoned plains alone
Condemned to die in exile, in disgrace
A king without a crown, without a throne
The robes around him, rags of tattered silk
Slip slowly from his burned and blistered head
He drains the final drops of bitter milk
And chokes upon a dirty crust of bread
He feels his failing heartbeat as it slows
And waits for death to claim him, unafraid
A smile, defiant, dark, from one who knows
His infamy will never fall or fade
He reigned with force and fury, fear and flame
The king is dead, but long will live his name
