From high above the door
at the chapel’s far corner,
his face leers
at the passersby.
His scowl is malevolent.
His eyes are hollow.
His nose is flattened from
centuries of wind and rain.
He smirks at the world
that shuffles underneath
the ancient doors.
He is The Unknown King,
the one who sought immortality
by patronage and conquest.
Like Ozymandias,
his visage looms across
an urban desert,
his power broken
under the crumbling
of the ages.
Yet, even Ozymandias left
his name as well as his face.
The Unknown King
peers down from the turrets
the black shadows of his eyes empty,
his face contorted,
as if in vengeful rage,
in protest against anonymity
and the futility of fame.