Darkness creeps slowly into the room
covering each object in paralyzing gloom
with the crazy onset of unending doom,
flowers that never once again bloom
beneath leaden skies and thunderous booms,
what was once grand has morphed into a tomb,
the crumbling castle of Troom.
Pitted by the silver lances of the moon
the last knight sits alone eating porridge from a rusting spittoon
with a golden spoon
his eyes staring frantically like a captive loon
imprisoned in the awful ruin,
the crumbling castle of Troom.
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