The mad King slept like a baby,
in fits and starts with intermittent interludes of sobbing.
The letters were coming,
red ink and wax seals,
sealing his fate,
as the drum beat of battered desks ran out through Westminster.
Betrayal was cold and congealed in his mouth,
forced down by the friends he had kept close,
and the enemies he had sewn to his side.
It was all over,
no matter how many fingernails he broke,
clinging to a broken, bloody dream.
Brick by brick,
the boy who became King will be broken down by his own believers,
thrown over Westminster Bridge into the fast, forgiving waters of the Thames,
while they gather around a new dream.
It is all over.