Just a sketch
Guidelines for street art
A welcome for the Spanish Governor
And the most compelling object in this old museum
These are the lines of battle
Lines of sorrow
And defeat
No face has endured more
His eyes
Look back into his soul
Look outward in fear
His will to power holds him hanging by a thread
His lips
Set firm
Are yet resigned to what must come
The crown sits awkwardly
Tipping backward from his forehead
Ready to fall
He knows nothing of surrender to the Self
He holds high his sceptre
An almost empty threat
A sword without an edge
He will never know the peace of letting go
His body bent
Right foot inching forward
His head torn sideways
Death distracts him from left field
Armour and authority
Hold no sway with this assailant
The orb, the world
Held in his hand
Is eaten by shadows
His liver is all shadow
This wounded King knows
Nothing of the grail
His inner world
His outer world
A wasteland
Only fear
And an ego of steel
A habit of rulership
Fight off the darkness
He needs to feed on the world he mastered
Draw its mother milk to his embrace
No sustenance comes
Soon he will be food for worms
Despite his conquests in this world and time
He must return again to dust and slime
For in this portrait we can clearly see
He found no moment in eternity.
©Nick Owen 2013
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