The King's Crown

Excerpt: "Yet the paint wouldn’t touch, and the hermit cried,for he said he had seen shifting of the eyes."

There once a place,

as so my grandfather told.

A kingdom,

such once ruled in the glorious land of England.

Back in the time when valleys were grey,

and waters were red.

The time when churches stood tall,

and so many in number,

and twas once a particular king

who died in battle,

and said the blow to head,

the blood expelled,

and extinguished the candle,

the servant held at bay.

And so too,

marked his portrait,

discretely his bust,

if so it might be told.

Now the king being dead,

quickly was buried.

Yet there still his portrait hung,

in the hall of the great monastery.

In this abbey, a’many of monks did cry

a spirit haunted this holy place,

and sought every opportunity to mark his place.

And the Cardinal,

a truly gallant man,

order the remove of the state portrait,

and demand it be clean,

for then the spirit of the good old king should rest.

However,

the portrait wished not to leave,

but soon after arduous strife

to the house of artist it went.

An old hermit,

said was this painter,

yet sad he was to see his work,

branded by the blood of it’s good king.

So he worked by candle light,

in every strife, to return it to it’s proper life.

Yet the paint wouldn’t touch,

and the hermit cried,

for he said he had seen shifting of the eyes.

The bishop said he was mad,

and had him chained in an asylum.

The portrait, stained and all,

was returned to the hall.

A gentle priest descended once,

on a rainy day.

To the deepest cellar of this abbey,

and with skeleton key,

sacrilege; his mortal curiosity,

 opened the chamber of the dead king,

and found all flesh scattered,

all bone broken.

Upon his way out,

sallow, his face washed out.

He tripped upon the skull.

Now thereafter,

the place was left for bare,

except for curious visitors,

to see the nefarious, haunted portrait.

Yet, they never were left the same again,

as so said.

Soon, this place became inhabited,

by birds of prey,

and of stray mammal.

Even after one hundred year,

people still flocked.

To see this portrait,

though all visage of the king was gone,

all was left was marks of blood.

Clear and fresh as morning day

And in the late of midnight,

the resting birds would start.

For somewhere far underground.

Was the sound of chains and rattles,

human screams, anguish terror.

Occasionally a neighbor would descend

to see what be the matter,

and into the chamber they went.

No bone ever kept it’s place.

The casket shredded and torn.

What pillager would do this?

Who caused these moans and groans?

Yet there,

by light of candle,

gleaming in the corner

laid the king’s crown.