The Leaden Crown

Is then the crown too heavy that I wear? It is not made of gold or silver but of lead and mental garbage; yet it is bright it flaunts some embedded gems around it, they represent some good things that have happened throughout my life. I, the wearer, can't see the shines that it reflects far flashings alike those of a lighthouse. My brain seems to beat against the solid rim. The Crown can´t hold in this steel skull of mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most fright battering fight. And now this king has become old, an antique buried into antiquities so with yet a broken throne. The "great gods" (or the people who shared and to whom I gave my youth), mock that captive king. Now all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad. But this Old King Though bodily unharmed, it uttered cries, as some king´s ghost in supernatural distress. leaving drifted the relics of old time.