The King

The tired man walked in
His tall frame slowly losing its height
More than seventy years load
Bending his shoulders away..

I stay numb like always,
Belittled by his inexplicably royal personality..
He has worked all day, relentlessly
Just like past forty years..
An age, a lifetime dedicated to knowledge

Today they respect him less, fear more..
Understand him less, bitch of him more..
Know less than him, pretend more..
In their sad excuses for merriment..

They understand not the tired body
The pain of rejection of his skills..
The accusation of him being disposable..
Of being past expiry date..

Yet they crowd him, when they're at a loss..
Call him The King, seek redressal..
Yet talk of him ill, unbeknownst to him.

That bothers the mortal man he is..
But his mind still works..
Recognising the challenge, avoiding silly talk,
He is ready for the next day
His sceptre in his hand, he arrives..

Nobody realises what burdens he's carried
Because the smile on his face doesn't give him away..
The crowd ignores, in their mediocrity
I watch it from my vantage point-
The King and his kingdom's worry..