The March of the King

In the timeless dance of the flickering stars,
You wandered, O ancient rover.
Your staff struck stone beneath dreamland’s spars,
As the starlight was drifting over.

And the whisper of sands through the ageless dark
Spoke prose of the void's old story.
The wall turned to dust that once ringed the stark
And silent Carcosan glory.

The rustle of robes in the hush of decay—
The wind of the cosmos, nearing.
Through centuries’ whispers, in ghostly dismay,
The ruins breathed out their fearing.

And shadows unseen trailed close at your heel,
Wherever your path was bending,
And a spectral circus with turning wheel
Foretold your silent descending.

In halls of the theater, damned and profane,
The crowds fell to madness, screaming.
A guard line stood in a proud refrain,
The gate for the King unseeming.

And branded with seals of the yellow sign
Were brows of each soul surrendering.
Wild cries tore loose down the twisted spine
Of streets where minds were rendering.

A bell did toll in cathedral's spire,
The soil was cracked and dry.
The herald sang of a dread desire—
The King was marching by.

The masses parted to clear the way
For the stranger still pressing onward,
Who walked as if in a dream astray,
Unmoved by the rite so sunward.

And vacant eyes followed behind his thread,
A robe of gold adorning.
While spirits, wailing, the oath they’d pled,
Joined in the dead king's mourning.

And years went by; all tears were shed
For the city none dared name.
It crumbled like dust where Carcosa bled,
A myth without voice or fame.

And the rustling sand, like a whispering toll,
Will bury forgotten pain.
And somewhere again, in a town with no soul,
The King will walk... again.