The Crown Wears Thin

He drives the kingdom’s wreckage— A throne on wheels, rusted and tired. The crown’s gold is chipped, Its shine dulled by dust kicked up from forgotten roads.

Through shattered glass, His eyes see what others refuse— The twilight of something vast and unnameable, Stretching across the cracked horizon.

The kingdom, the car, the man— Held together by fragments of glory, And the quiet hum of an engine That no longer promises escape.