In a faraway, makeshift land
– a ruler sits on a throne of teak.
A throne, ancient by his own command,
– carved out by scholars, soothsayers, and the meek.
And surrounding the throne were luxuries
– that rivaled that of Babylon’s,
of flesh, furs, and jewelry
– so the ruler could fantasize of days, halcyon.
And in the hallways of the great palace, the echoes reverberate:
“Behold, it is he Ozymandias! King of Kings!
Look at his works, ye mighty and despair!”
But Shelley knew two centuries ago,
– what priest and pauper fail to see.
That Ozymandias, on his teakwood throne,
– will not escape the grasp of eternity.
And when the time-touched sands sweep in
and break down the crimson crown.
All that will be left, disappeared into the dust,
for weary travelers to stop and gaze will be the words: