You sit upon a throne
built from your illusions
your crooked crown gleaming
with the light of stolen gold
you call yourself a king
but your power is fragile
stitched together
from the whispers of fools
your unctuous sycophants
who somehow believe
that the sun rises
on your command
they worship you
not for who you are
but for the fraud
you have become
your voice honeyed with lies
weaving promises
you do not intend to keep
and still, they bow
blind to the selfish intent
hiding behind your eyes
©Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 