The Untold Story

The raucous celebration echoes off these lonely walls
as mead is sloshed around and guzzled by the victors in the halls.
Remnants of the battle won is worn on armor marked with red,
whilst songs are sung and hymns are hummed in acquiescence of the dead.

At the table, with the leaders flanked by all men in their charge,
food is mauled by mouths that near forget what manners really are.
Cheers presented by the men, each voice is fighting to be heard,
are only thankful that their victims never get to say a word.

Tattered banners hung from ceilings-- representing those now dead--
were once majestic, born a source of pride. They hang by just a thread.
Paintings of inhabitants, whose eyes see strangers in their midst,
are slashed and crooked -on the wall- and arrows penetrate their piths.

In the corner curled a victim-- gagged and roped around the wrists--
is one of very few alive, though any thanks would be amiss.
His dried-up blood and scattered bruises coat his body like a paint,
such that a woman passing by would clutch her chest and promptly faint.

Unconscious though he was despite the loudness in the room,
and whilst he may have been knocked out, there is no doubt he sensed his doom.
His breaths came out in anguished gurgles --blood was foaming down his chin--
and yet the soused men at the table pressed on with celebration.

"The king who would defy us is the king that is no more,"
spoke one man at the table's head, which met with pounding on the floor
and cheers from all men at his side, with scraggly beards and tarnished helms.
Their cups were raised, arms brought to chest: "Here's to the king and his new realms."

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