The gold was polished to a blinding sheen,
The highest seat that any eye had seen.
It stood on pillars made of stone and pride,
With nowhere for the truth to run and hide.
The king forgot the soil from which he grew,
And only the taste of his own glory knew.
He looked at people like they were but dust,
Until his iron heart began to rust.
For power is a flame that needs a soul,
Not a fire out of all control.
The marble cracked beneath the heavy weight,
Of arrogance and its cruel, bitter state.
The crown is heavy when it's built on lies,
And hollow are the praises of the wise.
A sudden wind, a whisper from the street,
And then the throne lay broken at his feet.
The velvet torn, the golden statues cold,
A story of a fall so often told.
For when you build upon a mountain's height,
Remember that the sun must set at night.