King, or clown of a poet,
What lies within your hollow crown?
Wisdom was never found in books, but life.
Never found in words, but lived.

So was nobility lost in the old
Because it was never found in youth,
Or were the high ideals cut down
By the long plain of years?

Was the King nothing more than just an arrogant old fool
Who thought himself better than the rest.
What was it that made him think that way?
Having nothing but the best.

The king rose to build a palace, his tower guarded by many thorns.
Upon its walls sturdy tendrils of ivy grew
Upon which snakes and lizards crawled, exhibiting tongues of poison,
Their heads with many horns.

The creatures grew bigger around the kingdom,
They became stronger, tightening their grip, as snakes do.
Yet still, the king was king inside.
Suddenly, the walls of his palace crumbled.
Knowing nothing but wisdom,
Useless in words
Once inflamed with the daggers of snares,
The king fell.
Upon the last and first step of his ruined tower
He looked up upon its hollowness
And with insight of the animals
That laughed at the pompous king
He again began to climb.
A King Rose to Build a Palace