The King

The clock was somber on that placid day
The clock encumbered with a burden that lay
The bell had tolled…
Precision had foretold that it was, old

The man awoke, despite his hold on that one bitter fold;
That day, in May was very cold, as much as his most precious gold
He weakly whimpered in his bed, another day of doleful dread
He said it thrice deep in his head, “another day of doleful dread”
The silk, the best did find, he paid it not an ounce of mind
The crumpled pillow near his leg, did sing, “you are not dead,         not yet,     not yet.”
He head a snicker at the door, and stumbled quickly to the floor
The snicker was again, once more, and he lay sprawled upon the floor.
His eyes lit up, those fearful orbs of black and white,
Had flickered to and fro, and left and right.
He wondered, his mind had floundered…
“Could I put up a decent fight?” He thought, “I might!”
He took a dagger from his bed, and bound it tightly with a thread
His hand was wise in combat arts, but way too weak, with withered parts.
The door then opened just a crack, a shadow seeped through, looking black.
He quickly dashed away to hide, while his assailant came inside.