This Kings Court

 FurryReapper

That morning, he took down the ivory painted stairwell, into the deepest drollest depth of the den.
The golden studded crown sitting in its cabinet lay on the satin silken pillow, as a jewel in a stone.
That night he took it from its cabinet and placed it on his head. The lights flicked on, suddenly and then,
Then the princess came down, a sweep of cold wind, shifted the satin drawers through her fur and bone.

When will he realise, he can’t wait to be a hero, to stand on top of the Dresden hill, and poke the sky.
When the nights are so frosty, and the snow ridden roads, bound them inside and all alone, he was.
With the princess, in his glanced glare, took the ridden crown and shoved it as cued and put it up high.
Where he stood at that moment he never felt more like he felt before or what he it is or what he has,

Shant he know the truth of golden treasured
Shall he see the sky from the clouds out score?
Shant he takes the one true thing he has, and makes it assured
Shall he see the days go by and nothing more?

One true man of nature with this crown on his head, maybe nothing in-between, at t’all, is what she said
That’s the thing he fears the most, the judgement of the mirrors, or the voices in his head.