Crown of moss upon an oaken head,
Streaks of starlight woven in a thread.
Darkness engulfs his city of thieves,
Soon he too shall sprout blood red leaves.
Like an age old elm tree, roots he shall sprout,
Turned into a mighty tree preserved even from drought.
The Wooden King shall pay for his ghastly sins,
For in the end Karma always wins.
by OBSIDIAN VISIONARY
© All rights reserved 2015