His name, like all things, had passed with the age,
and a remnant of his line is here with him now.
The room is far larger than any he had lived in before,
but smaller - much smaller,
than those I had lived in with him.

The shrinking of a life never seemed so real;
this deathbed vigil is providing ample evidence that
our kingdoms are towers that lose foundation
and sink with us into the muck that we,
in our prime, had risen above.

He seems so small now, so weak. Who would fear this man?
A man whose cutting voice was the terror of timid youth,
now "requests", "would like", says "please".
This is a foreign tongue learned in retirement;
reserved for guests, which, I guess I am.

The kingdom has shrunk to this bed, and his company, to me.
He must live, as we all fear we will, at the mercy of another,
who may take advantage of this moment
or bare a soul, which all should hope
remains cloaked in the benefit of a doubt.

What seemed so long now seems too brief - not enough.
He stares, as I lift his lids, then again push closed the eyes
that want to continue to see, all that continues to be outside of the tower.
The tower that has passed below the plane,
to join the past, that has itself been buried.