A regal throne lays in darkness still –
A battleground proving force of will.
Many come and are exhausted by the try
For it is to waste that they’ve come to deny.
The gleaming bowl, it shines with malice.
A peace of mind clouded within the white chalice.
Warriors struggle and strive with great force
as they sweat and swear along the treacherous course.
At last, the pain passes; they sigh with relief
and wipe off the sweat that the ordeal bequeathed.
Some come to the throne, begging for mercy,
longing to lose the dark kisses from Hershey.
The porcelain throne, would I call you my own!
Yet I have not talent enough on you to hone.