My Majesty

Laid back on the sofa
I speculate on my Majesty
Have not realized so far
What it just might be.

A philosopher at least
Eager to say something wise
Yet trying to be honest
Before telling lies.

A sculptor who molds
His thoughts too insane
Carving wrinkles and folds
On his genius brain.

A point of singularity
The center of Universe
An egoist individuality
In his genius verse.

Unread book of affairs
Lying on the shelf
Or the only one who dares
To describe himself.

Confined in his made up thoughts
Unfinished sentence with dots ...

The one who makes efforts
To understand his being
Writing bunch of words
Without a meaning.