peering around a curtain, through the veil,
there, the glittering city of camelot awaits,
the king and queen on their thrones,
on the dais, awaiting their last child.
the king’s skull is cracked open,
flesh peeling away from the jagged edges,
brains erupting from the hole left behind,
dripping down into a grinning, personable mouth.
the queen’s gown is infamously splattered,
her skin made-up, unblemished, and wrinkled,
a sparkling lady with flesh dripping from her cheeks,
withered and poisoned with age, horrifying, immortal.
their son sits off to the side, crown prince,
his face smeared and still smoldering,
smoke rising up off his square shoulders,
crown crooked on his glistening wet hair.
knuckles white on the curtain, one last look,
before the veil flutters closed once more
and camelot vanishes yet again, fallen empire,
the kingdom immortalized in the valley of the damned.