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The Poor Man’s Throne

The social outcast,

Always looked past.

In a city of fortune and fame,

He is drowned in shadows he cannot tame.

No way to advance,

Never given a chance.

Seventy-hour laborious work weeks.

Back breaking work, but never speaks-

Never complains, only pushes harder

Never with-holding of his ardor.

It ends, but he can only pretend

To be happy – a weekend still no friend.

Social life in disarray.

No one to hold and sway-

Softly along the dance floor.

No family to care for,

Only bills to devour his slight monetary gain

Hoping for leftovers to calm his bodies pain.

He strikes out through the city, to get away

From the everlasting lights that never set on this bay.

Unclean, unshaven, his guise deters the dresses

Of the beautiful women whose piercing gaze only depresses.

He is a ghost, looked through by all

A peasant in a castle hall-

Pleading for a chance

With lords who won’t even glance.

He increases his pace-

Wanting to escape this place.

Walking through the gates of the port-city

The lights drowned out by the darkness of night with no pity.

No flashlight,

Only the moonlight- To guide his flight.

Climbing into the night.

The deadly terrain of a mountain face

With one mistake-Ready to erase.

Reaching the peak

Unable to speak.

He faces the city-

The place that gave him no pity.

Works him to the bone,

Yet he is thrown none by anyone.

Illuminated by light,

Even with the blanket of night

The bustling ants, who once overlooked him

Are now as insignificant as him.

A city that gave him no chance

No way to advance.

However in one night

He climbed as he had done his whole life, port city in sight.

And was now seated at his throne,

The poor man, now king of his old home.