Empty Ideal

A broken kingdom, the one at hand-
The king is far away.
The stories, the stories of what he be,
Fine ladies' tongues at play.

They say he has a skin so bronze,
It needs no golden dusts.
They say he has his nights so sweet
That every lady lusts.

They say his shoulders are so wide,
And ever are so strong-
Every knight does envy him,
So what, pray tell, is wrong?

His lady, the queen, knows him best,
Beyond all woven lore.
Before his leave, these tales he sowed,
But his heart was gone before.