Thief of Glory

Thief of Glory Faded flowers, dead on the table, no vase, no water, no blood, no sacrifice, of time, sweat, tears, years and fears. Regardless of the race, unable to meet the rules, making up your own, to go along. The crowd too busy to notice, you are too big for your britches, too tall for your crown, too wanting in your desire, to lead the parade. Willing to step on... the innocence of hope, eating and relishing, magnificence unearned. Yea... that they call your name, in praise and yet future retribution, of all that you have stolen, and can not give back. Your sickness, confusion of displacement, a chance to be all that you are, and taking more not less from others, to achieve your purpose, a splendor in the garden... of white roses, stained to red. When you count your trophies, and see the symbols of fame, remember it is your name, that came before all others. That was important at the time, and less so now. But it is too late to change, a history of destruction, "Self Preservation", far more worthy a title, then "Queen" of anything. Truly in the end, a king of nothing.