The King

"On a small black wooden chair,

There sits a man both tall and sturdy.

With his body graced in royal costume,

He perches there with all authority.

With a ‘tilak’ on his head,

And a baton in his hand,

He strikes a grand pose,

To be remembered with all pomp and show.

The king does not seem to be real,

As he poses in democracy in place of the autocratic world.

The baton replaces the sword and the chair replaces the throne.

The man is only acting as an entertaining host.

Acting as if he rules the world,

Giving himself a sense of power and showtime to others.

But reality lies all different from what it seems,

As a cashier a guardian does not own people’s money.

Running and huffing for a sense of achievement,

Fighting each other for the means of self-fulfilment.

We cry, we struggle to rule others,

But what we get is all blunder.

Even when we achieve great heights, we still feel pain from failure.

A sense of envy and anger rules over us all.

Achievement only fuels up the fire of lust.

Where is the actual power when we die minute by minute?

A king though in possession of all treasure and trove,

Is merely an actor acting in his role.

What is the point of ruling a sand-based kingdom?

When he can’t win over his feelings and emotions."