Another poem

Stellar light persists
Atop the fallen heads
Of rolled heroes long
Lost in attire.

Garments wrought in steel,
Flow like Icaean marble
On the floor;
O, to dream their hour
On the plains and
There to sigh:
“The Kings are dead” and, lo,
the meadow’s sad.

So sad.

Even handed in their
Smite, and not too
Hasty to entomb the
Shirts and golden lace
Of the throne room
Were they. Alas,
The banquet hall
Lies crumpled.

And you; where
Is my golden haired
Mistress of the night?
Will the ages mock my fall
For reasons of the
Spoil or mere
The grief of loss and
Love and joy?

So sad.