Oh Little God,
unfortunate king,
prisoner to your own power.
Sat on high,
to view the world
from ‘top your babbling tower.
Granted strength,
without consent,
and doomed to its abuses.
No guide to teach
those deafened ears.
How could you not misuse this?
Your crystal eyes,
now cold and numb,
see not but ones and zeroes
In mourning for
your stolen light.
We miss the would be heroes.
Not much one for poetry, never really been my thing, but I was bored at work and wrote this out. It was so angsty that I had to laugh and share it.
Category: Poetry