The Dark King watches, commands, and whistles from his chair
His crown turned upside down, legs crossed with the agony of ages
Tree trunks tossed asunder into piles of millions of long-dead minions
Oranges, greens, and deadly greys of their deaths pile up and whirl
The whispers of the wind moving thier souls through the darkness

The Dark King watches, solemnly and silently only nodding his head
To command his armies which fall or break or cede to the wind
He sits with rarely a smile or a creak to bemoan his trials
The knotted bones of age and of long past wars and the forage of man
He wrestles with the ground as well as the air and pulls towards the light
But never finds the satisfaction that he seeks.

The Dark King watches as his soldiers and minions die silently
Falling to their eternal beds to rot and fray and mold
Wanderers pass but never look up to the Dark King in his own home
To identify his rule or that the incessant pattern is his own
His orders come too slowly to punish them for their insolence
So he sits on his throne, watching and waiting for battle
For this is what kings do, when they are all alone.