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Dead Man's Throne

I hide from light, my eyes still bright.
Still tired from the fight that's right.
Bleeding through a trickled creek.
Still forced to live among the weak.

But I feel strong, so I must be wrong
Still somehow - can't get along.
What I find free, a hollowed tree,
that money could not take from me.

A seasonal home, land I can't own.
Lent to man from their Unknown.
A dead man's throne - artificial stone.
A valued bone: the stone I've thrown.

-© Copyright Timothy Hanchett of One Wind Poetry Submission