The melancholic monarch

Crestfallen i lay,
With drooping crown,
Submissive fingers smooth my temples like eager maids,
As though my mind were full of riches;possesing crowns and temples,
and those industrious maids,
But no;just neural fibres,
The gray hay like a paupers barn,
That sets alight in thought,
Burning it all out and leaving blackened wisps,
Burnouts everywhere.