the not king

"anarchy!" the king said, "in the UK. It's by the sex pistols. you should really check it out." "hohum, -yes sire" the congregation mumbled & they all sat criss-cross and somesaulted out of the castle. the sun shone through the grand foyer window and awakened in the king a familiar sense of hope. he imagined the sun stepping down from it's high seat in the sky and knocking softly at the castledoor. the king would open the door to reveal a light and a beauty so overwhelming that his crown, alas would be knocked off his tousled brown hair & fall to the ground with a great CLINK. without his crown, the king would simply be a man.
this comely position, so often regarded as insignificant had for years been the kings deepest desire. Not that the crowns golden splendor was unpleasing, nor its grip upon the skull too constraining. The crown was beautiful. And much, if not all, of the kingdom would give their left side to place it upon their own head. But to the king, the crown meant obligation. it meant a bedtime, and thick stiff, out coats. It meant cold tasting warm food and sharp shallow not friendships. The the king, the crown was a small death. and each time he wore it, that small death would travel from the crowns golden inards down into the kings messy hair, the death would then burrow deep down into the kings thoughts. From there into the back holding strings of his eyeballs. it would continue making its way through the kings strong neck, fancifully clad chest, and finally lay rest in his heart. Once the small death landed is his heart, King would once again be reminded how truly, how deeply, how greatly, he did not, at all, want- to be the king.