The King Who Wears the Crown of Frost

So many things are lost, almost each day;

a child may lose a toy or an adult, his heart

We may misplace ourselves, if we go astray;

if our choices in love, are not very smart

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We lose what we love, what we hold dear;

we lose what we hate, what we so despise

No criteria – we may lose a smile or a tear;

we lose our madness or what makes us wise


We lose so much; our lives are tainted by loss;

wretched beings with their backs all stooped

We lose so much, we are defined by our loss;

garlands of failure, our tragedies all but looped


Where do all these lost things go, once gone;

this is the very thought that makes me curious

Do they cease to exist beyond their last dawn?

Do they become shadows, silent and furious?


Perhaps there is a dark island, far far away;

filled with deep sorrow, it is eternally cursed

A sea of knowledge on all sides, silent and grey;

waving with regret, yet an unquenched thirst


On that island, there is a colossal hall of grief;

therein weeps the King, wearing a crown of frost

His legacy is so vast and yet he fears no thief;

it is the treasure of all that has ever been lost


He laments not the loss, yet his tears are true;

he mourns the tragedy, of loss dying in vain

Loss is a tree that bears fruit, if only we knew;

the fruit of wisdom, rotten and bitter with pain

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