Tall stone walls
before the fall
stood the greatest
of them all.
And in the room
the silent gloom
portrays the doom
that came too soon.
The nodding page
forgot his wage
upon the stage
where plays did rage.
Upon the gate
the land did hate
the traitor's mate
prefixed "the late."
A broken lance
did halt the dance--
the drowsy trance
in sullied France.
While on the throne
its name unknown
did sit, alone
a pile of bone.














Comments
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Art is the concrete artifact of faith and expectation, the realization of a world that would otherwise be little more than a veil of pointless consciousness stretched over a gulf of mystery.
If you don't believe what you see, who will believe your art?
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