Older Kings than even Ashes

A poem written previous to joining this site.

Older Kings than even Ashes—

The silence of a king, have you
Don’t speak over the whisper.
It flows upon the breezes, through
And smells so like an answer.

Don’t, wide eyed child, disturb this place
Nor let your feet and scramble
A million miles of faithful pace
For a fruitless foot of bramble

Here lay we the ash of a king
And a wind does to beseech
To pious lips and solemn sling
Our minds to yellowed wreaths

Trust! Oh child, it’s not to mend
What here could noise augment?
The passive pulling of the wind
Our fair fathers treatment.

And where this child stood tipped and toed
The restrain not defeated
So words wind whistled seldom told
Was wisdoms not repeated.