His courtiers all, were blind,
though their eyes seemed
quiet normal, full of glint
ay, there is the rub,
On his proud countenance,
the king plastered for ever
an expression of thoughtfulness
a make believe, a clever construct,
Wasn't it the curse of the lineage?
"May the powerful suffer
the constant fear of fall,
unless courageous to fulfill
the karma truly assigned
without fear or favor"
Every successive king
would ritualistically burn,
his copy of leather bound parchment
written this in lilting Latin verse.
the evil genius of the universe
would think of me, am I
just a pusillanimous *****?
the thirst for war runs in my veins!"
Sneering he lets out a war cry
perfectly pitched and phrased
in the tradition of heroes of yore!
It sounds odd even to himself
"No escape from the rut" he murmurs
Everybody pretend not to see
the big ***** in his armor.
who would take arms against
the kingdom's sea of troubles?
The king was in fact a lonely being
fear alone kept him company,
in person of the lord, his man Friday
in an armor that made him seem fearless!
Dame fear was his true consort
the queen only a substitute, wearing crown,
she was truly appreciated
only when she acted as his tranquilizer,
helping his worries galore go to sleep,
employing complex strategies.
Her favorite one for the final lap
was a lullaby that goes thus,
"Uneasy lies the head
that wears a crown"
in his nightmares regular,
mighty empires crumbled.
So he did the best he can
not anything for love to spread
but to consolidate destructive instinct;
he invented weapons,
went on upgrading it
day in and day out to freeze fear
horsemen, cannons, guns
his fear took many forms
and he used them to feel powerful
while trembling with fear.