All those bodies left in fields
blood seeping, soaking deep
like rain into the thirsty ground.
I thought I knew then.
I thought, I believed
I was there to wear the holy crown,
But I was no real king,
only ever really the fool.
Ambition gnaws away at the insides,
turns others into ciphers
for the yearned-for end.
I have no ambition left.
It is long gone, seeping into the ground
like the fresh blood of a young fool
who believed in all the visions,
who followed an older, but no wiser, fool
And for what?
For ambition? For glory?
And what is glory?
Peacock's feathers.
