In darkest hall, a knight in fervor stood,
He craved renown, his heart ablaze with greed;
To quell the land, he strove with all he could,
But scarcely weighed the quiet pang of need.
At last, with blade and cunning nearly worn,
He crowned himself upon a shattered throne;
Yet found the realm in ruin, scorched and torn
No cheers, no feasts, just echoes of a groan.
His triumph rang, but all that rose was ash,
The spoils of war a emptied, tattered prize;
He cast aside the faith he dared to trust,
For sorrow draped his proud, victorious cries.
He left the castle, burdened under gold
A ghost of pride, condemned by fortune cold.
Leave a Reply