THRONE

Last night I dreamt about you,

you sat before a throne.

judgement was looming,

few moments left before

eternal verdicts were decided.

 

Your face was pale, streaked with tears,

and though my back was

still bleeding from your knife,

I pleaded with you to say

the two words that would save.

 

The clock was ticking,

the end in sight, but not too late.

You shook your head,

passed judgement upon yourself,

too proud to concede.

 

So after all, it was not righteous wrath

that destroyed you, oh, no,

pride was the executioner.

Your horror was more palatable

than "I'm sorry".

 

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 AUTHOR'S NOTE

 

   I am no expert at poetry, far from it! I can't rhyme to save my life, and find it impossible to make words fit a proper metre. This poem was inspired by a real dream I had, and is very 'loosey-goosey' in terms of a form or style.