Sometimes I dream of how
A King must feel, seated
Upon His ivory throne.
What must it feel like,
To have in your home– homes–
Statues of bronze and such?
And artworks and treasures that
Nobles would foam at?
And men who cater
To your wishes like clockwork?
To wake and look upon
Your royal gardens through
A window with glass;
Oh, the class!
To lounge without a thought
Of fields to be plowed,
And candles to be bought?
I am but a farm-worker,
And this grand assumption
Could be quite impolite–
But the life of a King,
It seems like a goal worth–
Worth hoping for,
Growing towards.
Even as I write this,
I feel as if a seed
has been planted in
My dry and wasted heart.
And so, this humble farmer
Shall retire at last,
For my hands shake in the
Flickering candle-light
With dreams imagined.
Though, these are naught but
A worker’s ramblings.

