King of Kings

In lands afar, where tales are bold, A traveler spoke, his words like gold. He told of stone legs, proud and high, In deserts vast beneath the sky. Beside these remnants, on the sands, A shattered face, half-buried, stands. A frown, a sneer, cold lips compressed, A monarch's visage, long at rest. Upon the pedestal, only this claim: "Ozymandias, King of Kings, my name; Behold my works, ye mighty, and be amazed!" Yet only ruins lie within my gaze. The might has crumbled, pride laid low, Unyielding sands, they slowly flow. A tale of grandeur, turned to dust, In silent deserts, history's lost.