I stand in a palace.  I don't know why.  Or how I got here.  But this I know:  I shouldn't be here. 

A dome above me.  Of marble and stone.  A pillar, a staircase.  No, several more.  Light ever abundant.  Through windows with curtains.  The wind touches, caresses.  Hanging crystal, flowing fountain.  Floor of mirror.  Glory all reflected.  Golden and white.  A silent thunder.  It strikes me.

It finds me aged.  Crooked and patched.  Limping with poison.  Hurt are my hands.  I have not.  Except the rags.  They are my crown.  My face is sunken.  My hair, gone.  I have seen.  But never the good.  And weary with ill.  I cannot flee.  For belong here.  Is not in my name.  

So fall.  I fall.  In golden grave.

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