A Relic of the Past

Traffic rumbles forth across asphalt.

The withered king considers the world below him.

A bleak grey horizon casts its shadow upon his fortress.

Time abandons his castle on the cliff to nature’s blight. 

Quietly, the forest encroaches on the ancient ruin’s bones: lichen and moss enshroud its limestone, while the forest of native pinewoods devours the castle’s outer husk.  

He exists as a ghoul, scavenging the battlements in vain hope. Flesh and bone hang limply from his figure.

No sustenance left to bring him salvation.

Famine will be his assailant in the gathering night. 

He expects no patronage to come. 

An immortality barren of purpose, but ripened with despair.  

The world he once knew faded, now buried in the ashes of the past. 

He would not permit his leave. His being mystically bound to his hearth. Accursed to regard life as it unfolds beneath the escarpment. 

The withered king roams his stronghold, wearing his hollow crown of sorrow.

In grand halls that no longer echo. 

No mirth to bestow on him during his dying days. 

The gathering darkness has arrived. It masks his final breath under its cloak.

He sat upon his throne. Only a vain title left in his wake.

There was nothing left for him to reclaim.

His last dawn draws nigh.

Morning light glints through the bulwark of the grand hall. The withered king remained lifeless upon his throne.

His spirit departed from his vessel; finally allowed to expire within the carrion of his castle.   

The last vestige of his reign erased from memory. 

A great king reduced to a nameless vagabond.

He endures eternity as a wraith prowling ruins that once belonged to him. Imprisoned in a thriving world left uncharted by his mortal shell.

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Day 5 - This piece was posted as part of the 31 Days of Content Challenge that I undertook in March 2022.