Somewhere to the North there lives a king of yore
Imprisoned in his granite keep.
There he lay on the cold earthen floor,
Bound to the shadowy deep.
For years he has dwelled here, broken and old,
Forever a slave to solitude's hold.
Alone in the dark,
With nary a spark
Or a beam to brighten his way,
This king so humbled does stumble about,
A stranger to the light of day.
Long ago, of his throne he was relieved,
Then exiled,
A leader deceived.
Not kingdom nor castle, not village nor town
Would ever again see the king's gilded crown.
Never had the folly of benevolence been so clear
Since tragic Innocence's End,
For the king met his downfall at the hands of his peer,
Betrayed by his well-trusted friend.
Sisyphus gives pause and Job does weep;
For the plight of the king do their tears ever seep.
Try as they may, the wise and the dim,
With the poems and the songs that they sing,
None have heard tell of a tale so grim
As that of the Twilight King.