Death of a King at the hands of a prince
AKA
Put Away That Damn Gun William
Upon the heathered throne of winds so high,
He stood, a monarch crowned in branching frame,
A Lord of silence where the eagles cry,
And all the hills bent low to speak his name.
The mist adorned him like a drifting cloak,
Each breath an ode to ancient, unseen lore,
His hooves inscribed the earth with every stroke,
A sovereign spirit of the highland moor.
The dawn unrolled in amber at his feet,
The loch lay still, a mirror to his grace,
No rival heart nor hunter’s pulse could beat
The awesome thunder of his measured pace.
Yet far below, where man with iron waits,
A different rhythm stirred the fragile air,
A finger poised to bargain now with fates,
A breath that broke the world beyond repair.
The crack! Unnatural, split the sky from land,
A violent echo where no storm had been,
And in that instant, time slipped from its hand,
The hills fell mute, ashamed of what they’d seen.
He faltered once, as though the wind had lied,
Then knelt upon the earth he used to rule,
The crown of antlers bowed, the spirit sighed,
And silence claimed the highlands… man is fool.