Revolution Without a Crown

In the great hall of expectations
stands a chair that no one needs —
gilt and gleaming,
gathering dust like forgotten prayers.

Spider webs crown its heights,
more honest than any golden circlet,
while mice make parliament
in its hollow grandeur.

We pass by, day after day,
no longer bowing, no longer seeing
the ancient illusion:
that someone must sit higher
than the rest of us.

The throne room’s windows
have all been opened —
birds fly through freely,
building nests in the rafters
of abandoned authority.

Nature knows no kings;
the oak doesn’t bow
to the tallest pine,
the stream doesn’t seek
permission to flow.

Let the moss grow thick
upon this empty seat of power.
Let wildflowers crack
through the marble steps.
Let the wind be our only anthem.

In the space where rulers sat
now grows a garden
of ten thousand equal stems,
each reaching skyward,
none above the other.

The greatest revolution:
not to seize the throne
but to forget it,
let it fade like morning mist
in the rising sun of awakening.

Here we are,
all of us together,
dancing in the throne room,
our shadows painting
better pictures on the walls
than any royal portraits.

Power returns to its source:
everywhere and nowhere,
flowing like water,
belonging to no one,
serving everyone.

The empty throne stands witness
to the fullness of our being —
complete without crowns,
perfect in our ordinary way,
sovereign in our simplicity.