Becoming the king
Standing level with the shoulders of giants,
Head banging on the perspex ceiling,
Enjoying the superb view from my high chair,
Can’t get enough of this lofty feeling.
I’m on top of the world looking downwards,
On a landscape of my own possibilities,
Stretching out to far away clear horizons,
No end to the very illusive probabilities.
A king sitting in the steel wheeled throne,
Surveying his land of plentiful bounty,
No boundaries to block his future journey,
No border checks to enter a new county.
Mile upon beautiful mile of fertile land,
Not to bumpy or slippery under wheels,
Easily navigable paths between full fields,
He can wander safely where he feels.
He was tied to a heavy and static lounger,
With the safest of tightly fitting harness,
All secure in his own house of soft padding,
No unchecked risk to harm the highness.
All the biggest decisions made in his name,
Living the high life without any choice,
All his needs met without even having to ask,
The ruler with power but without a voice.
But now the powers on and the shackles off,
The switch is turned upwards on his throne,
Free wheeling freedom is his to command,
The many opportunities missed are shown.
His castellated walls have moved out his way,
Stopping their suffocating protection,
The far off horizon is his limitation right now,
Aiming to fertile ground for inspection.
His wheelchair turned up to maximum speed,
Driving towards his life’s future goals,
Riding off into the sunset of his wildest dreams,
Flying his flag on all the available poles.
Part Dalek 