Withered Ramparts

Withered rock and tattered flags,
standing tall amongst the crags.
Once a tribute to the rise and fall,
of kings so bold as to head war's call.
None left now man the ramparts,
no mean sit atop it with cold hearts.
The kingdoms of old have all gone,
yet the kings still carry on.

Gone is even the false honor,
and hope is certainly a goner.
Men no longer stand proud,
pushed aside by the popular crowd.
Who don't see the reason,
and call what we do treason.

Yet to protect and defend,
is a job on which they depend.
And despite the lack of reward,
its a price that we afford.
Not in gold, nor in respect,
we simply know we cannot defect.

So it is our ghosts and our spirit,
that atop the ramparts sit,
but we might as well be transparent,
for in most, there is no love intent.