Untitled as of now

Here enter the solemn pallbearers,
Carrying your shame.
Your family and friends have read
The Book of Your Soul and deemed it worth little more then a bad novel.
The coffin lid is finally shut,
As you had hoped for so long.
Sealing out the world that had once brought you such pleasure,
But without the burden of truth
What is that worth?
Thirty-two years back you waited in the wings,
And when you heard your cue, willingly ran into the fray.
So young, full of such promise,
Esteemed by the admired, you basked in the sun of praise
Ever-growing was your fame, the tales of your greatness.
There was no doubt among the people, you followed in the footsteps of your great father.
And as your reputation grew so did your pride,
As it usually happens.
But reminiscent of the ancient myths and histories of our time
Pain always arrives in the midst of a celebration.
The hero of your country fell during a time of happiness.
Your hero was gone, abandoning you to destiny.
Even in the midst of mourning a new leader must be initiated
To wipe the dust off the old one’s throne.
So you in your young naivety were left with power
In the place where most people carry a heart.
The downfall of many men had fallen on one too inexperienced to see it coming,
And too unwise to save himself.
Now you watch your life re-played,
This time seeing your choices through the eyes of wisdom.
You cringe in vain over and over again as you realize that your choices were wrong.
Benefiting no one, not even yourself, like you had thought.
And how did you think?
You don’t understand it now, though you had thought yourself wiser than before.
But even as you were unknowingly plotting your own fall, the people still loved you.
They saw a glorious triumph seated on a golden throne to lead them on to victory.
Through your new eyes you see a hideous monster,
And it horrifies you more than it would anyone else.
Cobwebs in your mind housing the spiders that fed on your brain.
A broken, rotted heart decaying inside your chest.
The zombie-like form seated upon a tower of lies, vices, sin;
The scent of corruptness pervading the air like a sickening musk.
Completely unresponsive, unaware to what would come.
And you walked the streets amidst cheering crowds,
A crown of wilted laurels upon your head,
Though at the time it felt like gold.
“Long live our king!” the deluded masses cried.
You were tottering at the edge of a precipice,
And they were as blind as you were mad.

Now here I watch as the black crowd shuffles away.
Few cry, and most of them feel shamed.
Their once-great king really never was,
And now the world knows.
For once they feel more pain than I.
Pain because of knowledge.
And though I now hold the knowledge as well,
I am wiser because of it.
I feel consoled that I will no longer affect history.