The Princes Tale

It had been said that his death would be lamented.

Never so much had he been dear,

Than on his death day.

His funeral was an ironic tribute, sickening

To the heart and soul of those who knew him,

Those few children

He was romanticised by women;

And flowers adorned his gilded form.

Too little too late.

He died a hero's death, alone, watched over

By only those who were formerly deceased.

Those he loved.

Admired by his enemies, but loved by none,

His plight, struggled and tormented, was;

But the soul consistency of his life.

Now his name is printed on dusty tomes,

Embedded in gold, spoken in the hushed voices of respect,

No longer malice

Through the falsities and the lies,

His death became a truth, the melancholy admittance,

Of a difficult, dismal existence.

In death he was a martyr, for a cause he never saw.

His brutal selfishness denied, in favour of false glamour

About a hero, a gentle hearted giant

No mention of satirical wit, nor bat like form

Nor the arrogance that he earned, his unmatched intelligence.

Just the good, and not the Prince.