There is no hell like serving a King,
To grace his sickening fantasy.
What a proud beast, this poisoning King.
See how he coils in his stagnancy.
He fills his head with towering halls.
Empty spaces replace his reason,
Believes a ghost, his queen, haunts the halls,
And sanity becomes high treason.
A beast and beauty trapped in their dreams,
One in love and one in confusion,
See not the potency, how such dreams
Caress with each breath an illusion.
No screen or mirror reflects beauty.
Loneliness leads to self-obsession.
The beast gives his life for some beauty,
As if his weakness were perfection.
A fairy tale from golden pages
Now rests upon the King's looping mind.
The same soul which reached for those pages
Is tangled behind foreign eyes, blind.
With pearls and jewels of violet and blue
Reminding him of beauty's embrace,
He droops down to the garden in blue
To reflect in green pools his proud face.
The roses hold themselves together,
Sturdy through tempestuous weather.
The empty fountains will be refilled,
Yet in his poisoned mind he is killed.
Seven days spent alone on a stage.
The King buries himself in dark sighs.
The audience is far from the stage,
So he sings like the swan as it dies.
