Desolate Dynasty

Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise, A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table. Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors. The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles, Vividly etched in ink. A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay, Its inked glory fading into disarray. Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest, Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills Of a desolate dynasty, As the last petal falls. Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste. What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise Resting heavily upon an exile’s head. How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals, Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames, Swirling around the ashen pyre Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation? An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion Within the sobbing stained glass. The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed, Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls. Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams, As beams of light punctuate looming shadows. Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt, Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor, Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors. Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber, He recalls the tragic tale. Before him stand his beloved wife and children, Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep. Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows, Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise. His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed To the greed of his own ambition. In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper Plunged their existence into oblivion, Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep Within wailing walls. Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming, A burnt-out waxen ivory, The candle before their tombstone.