Upon a throne of bleached and brittle bone,
The King of Emptiness begins to stand;
He rules a kingdom made of dust alone,
And holds a scepter of the shifting sand.
No shadow follows where his footsteps tread,
No echo answers when he calls the name;
Of all the memories that he has fed,
Into the dying of his silver flame.
A traveler wanders to the palace gate,
With pockets full of heavy, golden years;
But finds that time is but a cruel bait,
That dissolves into the salt of ancient tears.
The King reaches with a hand of hollow air,
And leaves a crown of nothing for the heir.
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