What grand parade, a golden road.
The triumph for the meek.
Today our future is bestowed,
As past begins to leak.
With gold and glitter spoils unveil,
As cheers begin to climb.
And so enact the vict’ry trail.
The serpent takes its time.
We find our triumph standing fast.
With crimson, paint his face.
So riding past as crowds amass.
Adorn with leisure pace.
Beside him rides his loyal slave.
A portly cordial mutt.
With words upon the heart engrave,
Too shallow was the cut.
And the slave so whispered:
Remember you are mortal.
So unabated forward climb.
Regalia purple dyed.
Approach the temple just in time,
To greet the priests inside.
With pious motions, careful phrase,
Perform the sanguine rite.
At last ignite the vulgar blaze.
So bathe the sage in light.
And the sage so whispered:
Remember you are mortal.
As clients gathered for address.
Their patron glorified.
His words demand their faith profess,
For promise to provide.
As soon as clients whet their blades,
They find their taste for rule.
For some, may think these worthy trades,
But power sees a tool.
And the wind so whispered:
Remember you are mortal.
So haunted master plug his ears,
But sirens fill his skull.
Their pleasant dreams do quell his fears.
A house divided cull.
The master leaves his own domain.
A walk to clear the head.
So focus hard on long campaign.
The master makes his bed.
Uplift the social for the good.
So coronate the word.
Within the shadow something hid,
And something deeper stirred.
Regard the blossoms basin ring,
One day will dust his tomb.
The trees they shudder slowly sing,
Of empire wayward loom.
And the trees so whispered:
Remember you are mortal.
Today the beast now roils with pain,
The pain which age begat.
The meek grew fat off life humane.
A tit without a tat.
So roll on ancient river course,
The crabs yet crave a feast.
The clicks and clacks surge toward its source.
The sun long left the east.
And the sea so whispered:
Remember you are mortal.
A pearl white skull, an art in life.
For patience’s reach is long.
So play the sleepy femur fife,
with shrill and morbid song.
A candle snuffed, an hourglass:
The symbols writ in time.
For when the mem’ries fin’lly pass.
So death has struck the chime.
Memento Mori
> A walk to clear the his head.
Minor typo. Either “the” or “his” alone works.
Thanks, fixed.
Very sharp stuff. I feel though some of the sentence fragments could be seperated by commas instead of periods, or perhaps semicolons.