Wasted Crown

I have seen the destitute in their health and company, More joyful than a lonely king languishing on his throne: On his deathbed, you see him defeatedly lay, With not a single reason to stay. His cure wasn’t served in a golden chalice, And his gloomy prison was his mighty palace. Nor were the beasts of fate taken by his knight, Thus was weakened by the attack of night. He assumed he could buy respect and love, But his erroneous thought was not from above. Perishing like darkness by the break of dawn, Folly stole his youth; he's a dying fawn. But despite all ills, he remains there still, On bed, waiting for destiny's ride downhill.