A Warrior King

I

A warrior king stands on the parapet,
surveying his domain with utmost care
while weighing war and peace as each prospect
presents its costs, quite painfully aware
how heavy rests the crown of leadership
and royal rule. His loyal subjects trust
him. Overhead the moon is just a slip
of silver on a quiet night in August.

Outside the stony walls, not far away,
the enemy builds fires, prepares and waits,
and dares the king to venture out to pay
a ransom at the city’s massive gates.
Thus he alone, without the solemn aid
of friends, must have by dawn his choices made.

II

His thoughts drift back to decades in the past,
when he himself was young and full of zeal,
and predatory tastes which could not last
eroded as he aged. His one appeal
now to the gods is that the bastion walls
might keep invaders out. His troubled face
betrays his deep concern as he recalls
the means by which he’d won this cherished place.

The turning of the glass, its trickling sands
unmoved, relentless in its mindless flow,
uncaringly points out like unseen hands
how even kings eventually forego
sometimes their loosened grip on what they’ve got—
and must think further, of their subjects’ lot.

III

Night vigils are the province of the old,
and though they tire and long for sweet release
old men are mindful of their work (I’m told)
and know to stay awake to guard the peace
and sleeping babes. The enemy can rest
in their tent camp, with naught to lose
or think about except the coming test
and chance of spoils to please their warring muse.

Within the walls, all sleep except the king,
who now with some resolve descends the stair
and contemplates the hardest kingly thing
to do, and gulps the early morning air.
Then, finally, at the castle’s wooden portal,
he draws the bar and exits, a mere mortal.