The Lonely King

The Lonely King

They wanted what he carried,

not the man beneath the crown.

His name, his reach, the castle walls,

the gold piled up, the power around.

She came in smooth, no stumble,

no need to play the fool.

Her dress said yes, her mouth said more,

but none of it was true.

He gave without condition,

she took with polished ease.

And when he dropped his guard for her,

she pocketed the keys.

He thought she saw his silence,

the cracks behind the frame,

but every look went past his face

and landed on his name.

He fell, not down in worship,

not struck by aching want,

just weary from pretending

that her kiss was what it wasn’t.

She never once said thank you,

she never said his name,

just “darling” when she needed

and silence once she came.

He sits now in the silence,

not tragic, not betrayed,

just rich and worn and hollow,

and tired of being played.

The lonely king keeps all his gold,

but can’t buy back the trust he sold.

His throne is cold, his nights are long,

in halls where no one hears his song.