The King sits all alone
on his thrown
which is sown
to old meat
black from heat
Ash excrete

There’s a sound
From a bird
Never heard
Off the beaten path it flies
Do or die
Blinds royal eye
Will the other finally see
Time does creep
Without sleep

King goes crazy worried from
Clowns and nuns
Toys and guns
Aimed his way
But he stays
Because that’s what he’s to do
Always wearing fathers shoes

This is a little stream of consciousness thing.
Composition King and Photo Tomorrow is not a promise by me.