The Figure Behind the Throne

Let me try this again…

The Throne of Stone (Written 2009)

In hallow hall there sits a throne
Where king there sees all to bemoan.
Yet strait, and tall, and proud he sits;
And drinks his wine and drowns his wits.
In barren hall, by throne of stone
The mad king sits and drinks alone.


Ok, I was looking through everything that I have posted recently, and realized I wasted this one.  The story that inspired this poem is one I intend to turn into a longer poem one day, because I think it is incredible, even if I can’t tell it very well.

This is the story of a king. He worked so hard to rewrite the laws of his country that had been torn apart by wars for the past hundred years. He worked without stop for five years, because he loved his kingdom and he wanted his kingdom to be at peace again. But he did not leave his castle. So busy with his work, the king left orders for his people through letters, and worked and worked. He knew it was not good to neglect seeing his people though, so after five years in his castle he decided to have a festival once a year where the kingdom would celebrate another year of peace. But when the king met his people, eager to see them finally happy, he saw that they did not love him, and he could not tell why. The crowds glared with pure hatred, and at the very back, taller than all the rest, stood a figure cloaked in black, his face hidden in the hood as black as midnight.

Years went by. The king sat in his study and watched his son play outside the window. His son Timothy was his pride and joy. But he looked on in sadness, for he could not remember his own name. His wife Miranda called Timothy inside as rain began to fall, and the king cried bitter tears, for he had forgotten his own name. Under the tree stood a black robed figure with a hood as black as midnight, holding a silver goblet, staring at the king.

The king sat in the throne room and stared at the foot of the throne. Timothy was laying there, red blood staining his blonde hair. The king clutched his son, willing him to wake up again. With the blood of his son staining his robes, above the king stood a black robed figure with a hood as black as midnight holding a silver goblet full of too red wine. He longed to drink it, but he could not. He was the king, and he must rule his country.

The king stood at his bedside in his royal chambers. His wife laid there with her white hands still grasping the knife in her chest, cold and dead when her attempt to remove it failed. Blind with grief, the king searched his castle for the man he would never find, the man who killed his beloved wife. He stood at the tower window and stared out over the hundreds of people outside the walls of his castle. Their torches lit up the starless night showed him the hatred on their faces. The king fell to his knees and pounded his fist on the wall in despair. So distracted by his tears, he almost did not notice the black cloaked figure the stood behind him, and silver goblet of too red wine clutched in his skeletal hands.

The king sat on his cold stone throne and looked upon his throne room. Before him stood the people he had spent his life trying to protect. At the foot of his throne was a stain that could not be washed away, at his side an empty seat that would never again be filled. And from behind the throne, where nobody else could see, came a voice that spoke to the king softly. It whispered so quietly that none else would hear, and told him how it had ruined the king’s reign. How the orders had been hidden, the laws the king had rewritten changed. He had ruined his kingdom without ever knowing it, and his people hated him. And then the whisper told him, with a voice like poisoned honey, how it had lead the king’s angry citizens to kill his son, and stab his wife, and come at arms against their king. And beside the empty chair stood a black cloaked figure with a hood as black as midnight, holding a silver goblet of too red wine in its skeletal hands and watching the king through it’s empty eyes.

The king stared out at his empty throne room. His people had fallen to civil war, his family had been murdered, and his work undone. He was old, and he was tired, and he had failed at all he had tried. And there, at the foot his throne stood the black cloaked figure with the hood as black as midnight, holding the silver goblet of too red wine in its skeletal hands, watching the king through it’s empty eyes. The king thought of his bygone years and stumbled from his throne, grasping in empty despair at the silver goblet. But, alas, when he grasped the goblet the figure vanished. The king turned around in desperation and searched for the figure again, but it was not there. Yet there, on the arm of his throne, stood a bottle of wine. The king rushed to it, and guzzled it, and wished that it would end, but it would not. For it was not the too red wine that he drank, and it would never end his sorrows. So the king slumped on the floor and drank, while behind the throne stood a black cloaked figure with a hood as black as midnight, holding a silver goblet of too red wine in its skeletal hands, watching the king through it’s empty eyes.

The End.

Not a very happy story, right? But it goes with the poem, so I think it needed to be told, right?

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