The boatman guides the king along the river of souls.
They that are its water turn their faces, ashamed of their lives.
The king gave his all to honor to his people, to lift their name.
His knights watch, weary and worn, grateful for his company.
The river of lost had only turn to him, a great example.
To see what could be, to know they needed not toil in vain.
So few try, too many fail, breed contempt, share their pain.
Content to hurt together, subdued by their own resistance.
Unable to find the joy in the discomfort growth brings.
The king’s knights watch from the steps.
The few that took his message to heart.
The cavern’s walls painted with their rage turned inward.
Never able to spur the populace to heights of greatness, they smolder.
Gone now, the people who could have led the country.
Destroyed by a refusal to be better, lulled by simplicity.
The king and his knights search for sympathy and find none.
The doors to life close and boatman wades through the throne room.
The king’s final resting place, in the company of those who strived for better, and those who did not.
His fallen people, their backs forever turned, too guilt stricken to show their faces.
The king and his knights found peace in life.
The question now is if the king’s people will ever find theirs.