There is a mighty tower within a forest green inside it sits a little man who thinks himself a king Carved of the finest ivory exquisite to behold adorned with jewels and silver and touched with purest gold It sparkles in the starlight and shines beneath the sun but in it’s many chambers there is room for only one He peers down from jaded windows to survey his domain leans his fevered forehead now against the window pane looks out across the rolling hills that seem forever green and carefully considers the world made from his dream He dreamt of wealth and power and standing on his own now he has his money and a palace is his home But he’s not quite what he thinks he is and his tower’s not so grand for all his jewels and money can’t make him half a man His hills are merely bumpy ground, his forest’s made of grass and he is only regal within his looking glass In his heart the blood runs cold and his soul has turned quite sour and he is just a little man in a tiny ivory tower.
Reason for writing:
I wrote this after a particularly frustrating conversation
with a know-it-all, holier-than-thou relative...who shall
remain nameless!!!!
Birth sign: Not entered
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