Forgiving the Scoundrel

Two scoundrels sit atop a hill
flanking royalty
Escorts to the shamed king.

One’s eyes filled with defiance,
Arrogance, not suppressed,
He knows no shame, nor love.

The other cries, quietly, aching,
Perhaps for his mother, or lover
His face shows his shame and sorrow.

The besieged king loves them both,
His heart sorrowful for their pain,
For the death they will all soon know.

The crying scoundrel longs for the promise embrace
Of the weeping, mourning king,
Longing for the morning of the soul.

The arrogant hates the king even more,
mocking, knowing no love,
Bitterness destroys the weary heart.

And death comes over the hill,
Greeting the pitiful party,
With his cold and boney grasp.

They all feel his embrace,
Death’s cold wicked hand,
The king, the sorrowful, the arrogant.

In his cryptic fashion, the king says,
With love, to the sorrowful,
“I will see you soon.”

“I will see you soon.”

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