Sons of the Father

Absent at many feasts,
Slaying horrid beasts.
True violence has been learned,
Through witches they have burned.

Within taverns, telling long tales,
Drunken on plenty of ale.
A chilling draft soon finds their shoulders,
Questions deep within soon smoulder.

Purpose has been stolen, awake are they,
The Kings of Once Were, weary and grey.
The pendulum swings, to the father they speak,
Father, mother and child is what they seek.

© Sayer Teller


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