Forgotten Kingdom

Under the foggy air,
Piercing through the hazy mist,
Diving deep into the troubled, infinite ocean,
It’s lifeless,
Scanty coral reefs and sparse marsh distorting the gaze of the rare visitor,
A realm unknown,
Mysteries galore,
Contrary to what’s said,
Both time and tide seem to be at a standstill here.
Shrouded in different shades of darkness,
The more you sink within,
The more unfamiliar it feels.

Somewhere stashed in this hidden kingdom rests an iron throne,
In the midst of a gaping trench,
It’s the only home he’s ever known,
Covered in towering shadows,
That throne on which he sits,
Armrests coupled with chain-link manacles,
They bind the helpless king,
So fast and tight,
It leaves bloody the wrist and ankles,
Repressed pain which remains concealed under a fake pride,
Suppressed pain chips away at his ego every now and again,
He’s by himself,
Stifling how he really feels.
The way it’s always been,
Ruling with an iron fist,
And a steely heart.

The expanse before your eyes,
He commands it all,
Kingdom as far as the eye can see,
It holds its emperor hostage within,
A shapeshifting labyrinth,
Deep rifts which made this lonely kingdom,
Light of day eludes this cursed land,
Alluding to his loneliness,
Gradually losing sanity,
Morning or nightfall,
Who can tell?

This forgotten kingdom he presides over,
His only subjects are despair and misery,
Ruling over the ever intimidating emptiness.
With seemingly no way out,
He feels so hollow,
Misunderstood, lost,
And held captive by his own people,
He never did fit in.
Only haunting memories trail him,
Fragments of regret he’d much rather bury in the coarse sand,
Lose them in the ever shifting sand dunes,
But they’ve always found a way to return though.

A monarch of nothingness,
Countless sleepless nights,
Nobody sees but that’s left him oh so drained,
He’s never asked for help even when there’s no one else who needs it more,
Oblivious to his plight,
Dying a bit more with each passing day,
So thin and fragile,
This isn’t what he’d thought.
Only thing that keeps this dictator going,
Is a steadfast hope of a change,
For something to give way,
More often than not,
He only ends up disappointing himself.

In a way,
Hope is fickle,
It only prolongs misery,
Maybe it’s just a trick of the mind,
Trying to convince one to not give up,
A naive optimism,
Weakness of the mind.
Perhaps it’s a mental disease,
An inability to come to grips with the harsh reality.
Childlike stubbornness that’s become characteristic of him at this point.
Like one pearl from a hundred oysters,
Naively,
He still holds on to that belief foolishly,
That each tide brings with itself new possibilities,
Trying to escape the vicious current,
Only a matter of time when there’s a better tomorrow.

But until that happens,
Until the first rays of the sun penetrate these murky waters,
When laughter finally infiltrates this deafening silence,
He still remains latched on the cursed wrought iron throne,
Tilted crown which rests loosely over his messy hair,
Staring at the unsurpassable high walls of this land,
A forlorn expression adorns his face,
He sits there,
Trying to stay strong but cursing his fate every single day,
That all-but-defeated emperor which is me.

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