Crimson carpet path,
celebrated actions or art,
kept apart from the peasants
by electric velvet cords.

As I walk, surrounded
cameras flash
and beautiful people
part as if on command.

I start to believe
what I read and I am told,
I have risen above the others
and now pronounce to them.

Like a religious leader,
but not lost in fervor,
no, simply in my own opinions
which I believe are gospel.

The truth is I'm no better
than the vagrant on the street,
the homeless under the bridge
or the people on the ropes periphery.

Yet I have forgotten this,
and will ride like a Byzantine king,
until one day, my sedia gestatoria
crashes to the ground, abandoned.