Atop that friendless hill
sits the monarch of the trees.
The crumbling crown of a castle
wrought with misery.
In disregarded splendour,
that once fearful keep
becomes a blemish on the skyline;
a loss no mortal weeps.
His walls provided hope
to the soldiers of despair.
But once their plight concluded
they stripped and left him bare.
No longer his might is worshipped,
No more do they fall to their knees.
The only servant who bows to him now
is the wind in the boughs of the trees.