The Dictator

His furrows grow more distinct.
Each line etched on his forehead has a different complaint.
They all begin with too.
Too loud. Too cramped. Too hot. Too cold. Too expensive.

This day is his day, just like all the rest.
He will act accordingly. Accordingly to his wants.
Do not protest. He will win.

His voice is deep.
After years of inhaling toxins, he has learned to shout over the rest.
He must be heard.

He is right. All others are unaware of their ignorance.
This displeases him.
How could they not know? How could they ask such ludicrous questions?

He holds his place with a never ending scowl.
Why smile when things aren't going his way?
Insufferable? No. They just can't learn.

He sits, humming to himself.
He has survived for so long on his own he forgot those around him.
He has chosen to ignore, to dismiss what all others desire.
Keep what he likes, toss the rest.

This is the king. He has lived. He has won.