my kingdom come

Look at this fine crown. Starry and bright,
It sits on my head like a minaret.
I wear it at all times to remind my subjects
of... well, their subjectivity.

My kingdom?
Smallish, oddly shaped.
Were someone (cartographer? impressionist?)
to put it to a map I would insist on choosing
the colors. I do have some sway.
I am less concerned with boundaries and such.

My hold on it is wispy,
as thin as a veil.
Revolution brews under the doormat
Radicals crouch in every corner,
construct their clever schemes
draw complex diagrams.
They rub their hand together
as they dream of my demise.

I was born to this, heir to chaos,
inbred and redundant.
It is all I know.
The trappings fit me like a second,
truer skin. I stir up the occasional scandal,
remind the proletariat that I am privy
to a realm of sin that is beyond them,
debauchery on a plane
they dare not imagine.

My impotence is legendary,
but I am undisturbed by that silliness.
I do my job, invoke a bit of fear,
wear the ermine and the emeralds,
indulge sometimes in a wine-soaked
dream of abdication.