A Self Proclaimed King Poem by James B. Christian

I stood at my pulpit shouting the veracities I had come to believe, like a mad man upon his soap box. I plead for understanding from my disciples, convinced that my words would somehow change already set minds. A fallen king trying to regain my crown, my efforts were desperate, frantic, like a child trying to reclaim a privilege lost. A zoanthropic fear washed over me as I saw that my words only seemed to push my people further from me. Their eyes only caught mine from corners, seemingly afraid to meet my gaze and only checking to be sure I would not advance on them. I watched them pulling their children closer as if to protect them from an obvious danger as they passed.
Alas, I was the mad man upon his soap box, my sovereignty just a busy corner in a city too busy to notice. Built on a love that I could only have imagined in my broken mind, a kingdom built on ruble long decayed and unable to support even the vegetation that grew on it, let alone my grand delusions.
Alas, I had become the fiend they rightly feared. Alone and donning a tin crown, I had become the beast they warned their children about.