The Iron Throne

We sit on a throne of a thousand swords, never comfortable, never allowing ourselves to sit back lest we gouge ourselves on the barbs of self-infliction. We sit high on the dais, to better judge all whom are deemed less than deserving of our time, time that has shortened itself by our command. Instant has turned into eternity, and forever now translates to "until something better comes along." The ideal of what should be remains ideal, whilst our lives waste away in a reality that is not easily assuaged by the "comfort" of the iron throne. It was forged in the fires of guilt and tempered by the fear that that guilt would remain in perpetuity. There are no bindings, no lashings on our wrists. We choose our seat. And the throne of a thousand swords is as tempting as a bright red apple, ripe for the taking.