The Glory of Kings

“The Glory of Kings”

I’m here fading in the corner of the room.
It is a lovely day to die in the dews of morning gloom.
Everything is falling, the sky is falling…everything is dim
It seems a decaying Heaven was all that could delay him.
But it’s like he never left this place…like he is here still.
There are such twilights his shadow yet may fill.
Such stars as he may shroud as his own sun springs,
Such, such is the glory of kings.

His voice is power, but most beware the luster of his eyes:
Diamonds of his strength such as may hypnotize
The mightiest of wills to bend to his design—
A simple glance, enough to see a void divine.
No room is empty where he has departed
But all is empty for the broken hearted—
Beware him! He is so pleasingly fiendish
One welcomes the result of anguish.
He will always leave you satisfied—leave you,
Not knowing what it is you must do
For a taste of his sexuality
As he fades into the landscapes of obscurity.

All that is sacred in me is what he left behind—
A beauty whose light can’t be defined.
Such an act as taking his leave will leave you mesmerized
In undeniable pleasure, such as has agonized
His rivals into subjection and delight
Of their need for his flesh and of his might.

Friend and foe alike his touch has haunted
With the horror of a rapture enchanted.
Ah! Like a dog we joyfully behave
For the disinterest that we crave
From this god among pleasures,
This treasure of all treasures.
Though walls may be built to hold him at bay,
His will each happy victim will obey,
And when he departs, back into his sacred light
When he departs, thief in the night
I crave more of his power over me,
My heart the plaything of a kiss so deadly.

I am frightened, for he will make me come
To the core of his bosom
Until I have died in the sickness of ecstasy.
Such, such is the spell he holds over me.

He will leave me satisfied with but a glance.
His voice will leave me satisfied and empty,
But ah! That emptiness is divine to me,
For his is an accursed romance,
A sickness from which I suffer gladly,
For it is the sickness of beauty.

© 2022 Marten Hoyle