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The King Who Dreamed Too Far

He dreamt a throne of light, not steel,
 a sceptre raised to bless, not bind.
He thought the crown a covenant,
 a flame of heaven, not a coin of men.

But lords weighed land, not visions;
 they counted swords, not stars.
His voice, a psalm in marble halls,
 fell hollow where the market roared.

He spoke of majesty as sacrament,
 while others bartered power like grain.
He built a palace of glass ideals,
 and wondered why stones broke it.

Misread, mistrusted, misaligned,
 he stood apart, a figure out of season.
Not tyrant only, nor saint entire,
 but a man who dreamed the wrong dream
 in the wrong room,
 at the wrong time.

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