The king sits on his throne. Leading guiding all in the palace of stone, sweat and tears. His followers revolt and his ivory palace awaiting his demise on his throne.

Let the throne crumble down onto ash. And amongst the fools laugh. Let he who knew of the silvery gaze. And in the eyes of a god.

Let it be known that it was the king.His iron grip, it was the king. His way of life. It was the king, it was his life blood. Now let it begin, it was the king.

He was out ther in the world but inside he was the same. He would lead army's to the grounds but his name was meaningless. His way or no way. It was like a demon in his eyes and ear.

His life meant nothing. A puppet to some and a figure head at the end. And with the life of a king was the responsibility of one.

It was the king. Berry the bones. It was the king. iron grip. It was the king. His way of life. It was the king. His hand in blood. It was the king.

(Will update when ever I can)