The Crown

Vintage Words


Against a life of strife and labor, fights

of no real goals achieved, I stand at

indecision's gate paused between castles

and queens where the crown determines who wins.

Field hands, barely fed, bath in the river

and watch children starve.


Inside a realm of wealth honed sharper

than Ninja blades, I sit to rest, unable

to challenge the unceasing realities

of high and low born.


Between regionally disputed ownership

of flesh and futures, I examine my wita

and my strengths to solve world huge

disparities. I find myself wanting. Too

far removed from the fields, to be

influenced  by the culture imposed

by money or conditioned responses, I

want to move, to change the world into

fair gain and omnipresent chance.


Under the floor that holds me below any

ideational plan to break bonds and liberate

human activity, I consider the crown; a piece

of metal shaped on a forge, pounded with strong

arms upon a well worn anvil; throw in a few

precious stones, and place it with ludicrous

ceremony onto the head of blood royalty

proclaimed history.


Without such symbols of power and authenticity, 

the world becomes disconnected and slower.

Advancement not withstanding, hammer and anvil

will one day return to honing sickles and plows

where in which lungs will be healthier and the land

cleaner without the crown.







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