The Mad King's Garden

"Can you see the past, there within the bones of their petals?"
The King stirred not, sitting upon the bench, hunched and removed
Knuckles curled rigid beneath chin, his heart no aim to settle

Beyond the dark halls, the murk and the gloom, shadowed
The garden of dust did lay, untended with weed and regret
The soil cracked, parched as his lips, without the tears and rain
Shriveled beneath the moments of lust, trust in neglect
Now the petals dried, flaked, crumbled
Nothing now but rust clinging to root in vain

But the Mad King, his eyes keen to history
Here he remembers, his hand calloused and broken
Can part the curtains of time and memory
He can glean, of this we are certain

The garden, once of blood, roses and lilacs
Laying still a muse with red lips and jade heart
Her bosom did birth question, true colors
That bled from stem and vein,  a blossom
Opened to the long ago sky, the King remembers flowers
Recalls wonders, before the burning
Across the flow of temporal remembrance
Beneath the rhythms of yearning

Though clouded eyes return to the now, the King
He stirs not, hunched low upon his bench of stone
Removed to his own council, within his hour of greed
The consequences of need, and arrogant seed
Buried beneath soil too parched to take hold

Though single tear did slip, a heart discontent
To drop to earth, hence was soaked away
The King's jaw clenched, fingers curled to fist
"Blasphemy, this garden would not grow" 
Anger, arrogance, the rage scattered dirt
With an angry cast from booted foot

"What if..." His voice croaked, broke beneath the weight of 
Another failure, rested upon his brow within his crown
Known only as shame, forever he wouldn't forget
Within his garden of rust, with his thoughts, and the ghosts
Of blossoms and flowers, blooming beneath the wraiths
And another moment ticks from mind's eye, cast back
The soil there, all gone bad
The wandering poet, the raging nomad

He remembers weighted moment, stacked upon shoulders
That long ago, drove this King Mad