The sword finds optimal efficacy in the hands of knights.
Yet if the knights are lazy, the sword is better in the hands of poets.

And likewise, the quill is masterfully wielded in the palms of poets,
But if poets refuse to write, the quill is better in the palms of kings.

The crown is better on the head of the king.
Yet if the king doesn't strive to bear its weight, then the land will go to shit.

Roles in society are interconnected,
Woven like the yarn on an old lady's quill.
Each thread, thick, beautiful, and luscious, to weather the winters cold.

Where one falters, another saunters with beautiful grace.
But ultimately, if your seat towers the masses and neglect be your lover,
You curse doom for society.

What can mere knights and poets do in the face of a king that is untouchable?
Throne unsittable, eyes lackadaisical.
They can only see their reflections on the surface of the crown, withering out of use.

How about the kings hit the gym and start wearing your crown,
Valiant knights, brandish your sword.

And poets,
My beloved poets,
Inscribe the tales,
Never refuse to write.
© Myth