Poetry, The Blind King.

The blind king sits on his throne,
while the court dances and yearns.
They sings songs of joy and rapture,
while the whole of kingdom burns.

The realm it rusts and rots beneath them,
while they count their piles of gold.
The merchants stomp and stamp their feet,
their voices ever growing bold.

The farms grow food they do not need,
and ship it far away.
The crows do drop and spread the seed,
that barren makes the hay.

The serfs do prance and sing to god,
while making balls of fire.
The priests do twist the message sent,
and pocket all the lyre.

The poor do stomp and stamp their feet,
demanding all the change.
They never take to earn it right,
just crying when it fades.

The guards do build a wall of death,
that tarrys any who cross.
The men sent back behind the line
do cause the kingdom loss.

Voices do reach the ears of the king,
who nods as if to say,
"No one could do this job better,
now kindly go away."

Amoung them all, the person sits,
running out of care.
When will someone notice him?
Before his purse is bare?