Ballad of the Dusty King

More about Ballad of the Dusty King

The sun beats down, the air hangs still,
On dusty streets where weeds grow high.
A broken town upon a hill,
Beneath a hazy summer sky.

Here comes the king, so old and gray,
His bare feet tread the littered ground.
He drags a sack along the way,
His rusty crown bent half-around.

His royal robe, a dirty red,
Is torn and patched, a sorry sight.
Bad choices made, the life he led,
Have brought his kingdom down to night.

The flies buzz close, they know his shame,
He walks alone, head bowed in thought.
A forgotten king, without a name,
Just dragging burdens dearly bought.

Credit to Ron Stehlin https://deepdreamgenerator.com/u/ron2020