"A Clash of Crowns"


David bled into battle with teeth on edge,
a lion howling hymns from broken stone.
Wine-slick from victory, still on the ledge—
he danced half-naked, fever in his bone.

He loved without measure, ruled with a flare,
his wrath was quick, his mercy slow to end.
The harp cut deep in temple air,
his God a storm, his sin a friend.

Solomon, silver-veiled in scented halls,
spoke slow as rivers carve a path through rock.
He listened. Weighed. Where passion falls,
he built with mind, not blood nor shock.

No shout escaped his ivory mouth,
his kingdom stitched by threads of calm.
While David stormed from north to south,
Solomon ruled with wisdom's balm.

David, wild with want, tore love apart—
Uriah’s blood still cries beneath the gate.
His psalms bore thunder from a bruisèd heart,
a soul at war with prophetic fate.

Solomon dreamed in columns, golden rimmed,
a poet too, though less of flame than light.
His wisdom bled the edges—soft, untrimmed—
he knew when not to fight.

David died with dust upon his brow,
a king who burned too bright to last.
His son looked on and wondered how
a crown sat fast could be so vast.













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