Around our copper throne, the perilous thunder rolled,
and became the forlorn tune of our death knell untimely tolled.
For my will was forged of stubborn iron, but his back of breakable bone, 
and my wishes were a chisel, but his hopes not made of stone.
So heavy is the heart that once wore his thorny crown, 
as blood is the red that painted our once golden town.

MP
Charmed winds lured us to chance our waiting watery graves,
but his galleon battered ere long gave way to waking waves.
For my odes rang notes of epic lore, but his myths sang mocking echoes,
and his cannon sank unfired to defend now desolate morrows.
So haunted is the mind that wonders still on lonely shores, 
as piercing are still the shades of what-ifs' muted roars. 

MP
Flames had flickered blue now but their mournful ghostly wisps,
coiling the brim of our shared chalice left untouched by thirsty lips.
For my cask waited still reflecting, but his last droplet dried
in the gale of the aftermath of fanciful wounded pride.
So parched is the body that once drank deep from our vine,
as dust is the uncorked bottle of our once floral wine. 

MP
Sacred steps in sunlit cloisters stilled by shadows cast long,
and they grew his spirit wearier than his conviction held strong.
For my oath was deeply rooted, but his perched on brittle branches
that turned by darkness to tinder to burn me to bitter ashes.
So barren is the soul that preached once an age-old ruse of a sightless sage,
as unbound was our once timeless love, by both time and age. 

*The first line is lifted from a poem by Thomas Wyatt written just ahead (no pun intended) of the executions of Anne Boleyn and her 5 accused lovers. He wrote in Latin as the last line of each stanza "circa Regna tonat" which translates to "around the throne, the thunder rolls" or "the thunder rolls around the throne".