Death Of The Minstrel by Keiron Tonge

With the lyre in his hand he was losing his grip on the tune.
Struggling to continue, to please the court at hand.
Such is the life of the meagre, the stained.
Such is the life of one man and his travelling band.

The crescendo touches the stone roof.
Riotous applause shakes his feet.
A thin smile on jaded lips.
Seen by all the people he had to meet.

A bead of sweat left his brow in the crowd.
Glistening in the air it faded into black.
The nobles crowding round like wolves.
No reason to be here but the money in the pack.

Rasping the man falls to the floor.
His lyre crashing to the stones.
The splinter of the feeble,
Of the brittle aged bones.

The silence all around was only broken in his ears.
The sweet chords of his broken heart.
Lying on the floor before him,
His faith was torn apart.

Unable to continue,
And unable to resist.
To the ears of the many,
He will be sorely missed.

…Shattered with his lyre on the stone…

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