A Wilum of Willows

A Wilum of willows.
With crown on his head.
Looks out on his kingdom
With nothing but dread.
For the ideas he pondered
Have all come to life.
They are the eldest.
The oldest.
From slime and from strife.
They are seaborn
Of land and of air.
They blight out the sight
Of all that is fair.

A Wilum of willows.
Is now not so niche.
He pulls out his trumpet
And plays it quite rich.
He blows it so loud
It seems such a spell.
A Kalevala of noise
As deep as the well.
A pale moon rises
As he lay his last lied.
Without way.
Without warning.
He sat and let died.
And as he sat dying
The world became wrong.
As love and good hope
Were all dead and gone.