The single hair that holds the danger aloft

is but a trigger in the minds of those with envy in their heart.

The crown unsettled, as if troubled by feet of clay so soft,

is not to be worn by one whose for lust of power is but a start.

I will not envisage a crown upon my head

nor will Damocles push me into the arena bold

for when all is not done and never mentioned, never said,

will my heart be cravenly sold.

You though, I see it in your eyes, it glistens like gold fabric.

For you the sword hangs tempting, you will wear the sword as well,

around your girdle, your leather brace rampant with expectation

of lofty highs, for you there never has been a low so thick

you could not escape and the story of your life you love to tell

for being King with the power, it is your missed vocation.

Ian D. Hall 2015.