High above the city lights, Beyond the reach of common sights, An orange man sat in a tower tall, Declaring himself the king of all. His hair, they said, could brave a storm, Defying every natural form, A golden nest of wind and pride, With restless thoughts that swirled inside. He'd shout at shadows in the night, And challenge ghosts to public fights, While ravens gathered on the sill, To hear him bend the world at will. "I built this kingdom!" he would cry, While thunder rolled across the sky, "And every cloud that dares to roam Must pay a tax to cross my dome!" The people laughed, the people stared, The people argued, cursed and cared, For every day he'd fan the flame, And every night he'd shift the blame. The mirrors lining every hall Reflected only him, that's all, And when one showed a wrinkle there, It vanished swiftly into air. Yet deep beneath the tower's stone, Where colder winds had always blown, There lurked a room he would not see, Locked tight with fear and secrecy. For in that room sat countless shades, Of broken deals and sharp charades, Whispering softly through the dark, Like wolves that circle after bark. They called his name when daylight died, When no applause could drown inside, When gold and glamour lost their glow, And only honest echoes spoke. The orange man would pace the floor, Then nail another gilded door, Stacking praise upon the wall, To keep the ghosts from growing tall. But ghosts are patient, ghosts don't tire, They wait beyond the reach of fire, And every boast he threw above Returned as something less than love. One stormy night the tower shook, The ravens fled, the windows broke, The city watched through sheets of rain As lightning danced around his reign.