THE AUTUMN OF THIS DOOMED DISCONTENT
Copyright 2012 , All rights reserved. Gordon Kuhn
Poet in the Rain Productions, Alpaca Junction, Incorporated.
The autumn of this doomed discontent,
Gave birth to chill winter’s killing cold.
As had so lived the despot king,
Now came retribution swift.
His counsel swept away to quick pricks of death
Only he and a few supporters remained on the run
And run they did while the sun refused to give aid
The chill crept in through cracks and an uncapped vent,
As while rested the burden of soul in these quarters old.
A cloak for warmth, once a fox’s shiny gift,
Though not given without a fight to take,
Now hangs on skin covered bones all coated with fine ash
From the stove where burning wood becomes less
As is needed and used from the supply left by
Supporters on the fly, such as shall pass here this night and
Sense the stove in its plight, in earnestness, doth hunger nearby,
For the taste even of a small bit of coal
To keep the flame assembled within the grated, gaping-cavern
To allow breath to flow, while breath itself is most likely ill kept
Within its home which lay close by in a small alcove
Where it trapped heat to beat back the probing frost of air
Which continued ever as it sought entry
Feigning a need for a friendly shelter
As it hurried about its quest to deliver a freezing death
And asked casually about the lowering flames near the dying man
Who once was king now meekly in this hidden place
Lays peaceful in a dying bed and slumbers as a pauper.
