The King sits: his knees rising up too small, almost, for the space
Although the chair fits him, a big man, he sits
Strangely as if in a doll's house. He leans closer, his face

Missing something, some element of kingliness which remits
When his mouth dribbles a little, in the corner - he cannot bear
To let her wipe it. And yet, he seems softer like this, he permits

Her to reach out to him. She wants to touch him like a mother, declare
Something, but she refrains. She isn't her sister,
Besides, the smell of him repels her - the closeness to death, his white hair,

The tremor that finds him inconsistently. She loves him like a blister
Might: sharp, hot, red but he wants softness. She has none
To give him. Suddenly she loves him more than she has ever loved anything, whispers

It to the body of him like a daughter might: desperate, undone.
He looks at her like a father might leans towards her and says nothing, nothing, nothing.