The Rose King

A rose bloom bobbed in the summer sun
The king of a flowering glade
Prophets had promised him he was the one
For whom the sun had been made
Time and again he mustered the will
To reach for that ultimate glory
His royal roots kept him standing still
So his prophets amended their story

At first Autumn's frost, the rose kingdom fell
The king was the first to succumb
No stones to erect and no triumphs to tell
His tomb bore the seal of the sun
Only the bees will remember his life
They still honor him after a fashion
They hum to their young in a thousand hives
Of his hope, and his strength, and his passion

Beyond her, the sun watches planets go by
And what does the sun remember?
So many that worship her wither and die
On the altar of bitter December
If she could, would she walk the dead forests and fields
Her burning indifference made?
Would she come to his tomb and respectfully kneel
To the king in his flowering glade?