For Al.
The Duke
Hear the footsteps in the servants quarters,
preparation for the coming of the Duke.
Quick to notice,
that his iron grip has faltered,
tell him anything
as long as it's the truth.
His teachings now
are locked within his silence,
to disregard every opinion
of the world,
who search forever
for the sources of his laughter,
yet to hear the sound
and never find the cause.
Behold the walls and ruins of his castle,
Gold and silver now more common than the flesh.
One last cry, a final gasp in anger
break the Spears
and lay him to his rest.
Gentle soul won’t you fill his mouth with holy water
One last drink
To forever quench his thirst
His sceptered hand
His burning heart
Have made a pyre of himself
And shadows dance
Where once the fire burned