Transient Thrones

A throne, not always gold, not always stone, sometimes, a splintered park bench, sun-warmed, where a pigeon, puffed and imperious, claims dominion. A throne, Sometimes, the driver's seat of a rusted truck, a king of asphalt, a scepter of gear shift, ruling the cracked highway's kingdom. A throne, the worn armchair by the window, where a grandmother, eyes like ancient maps, holds court with stories, weaving empires of memory. A throne, The hospital bed, a stark white podium, where fragile power flickers, a queen of breaths, a whispered decree. A throne, the teacher's desk, stained with ink and chalk, a battlefield of equations and sonnets, where knowledge reigns, and futures are forged. A throne, The stage, bathed in trembling light, a performer's heart, a velvet cushion, where applause echoes, a fleeting dynasty. A throne, not always inherited, not always desired, but a space claimed, a moment held, a quiet assertion, a temporary reign, over a kingdom of dust, or dreams. ©bfa032525