The man who has everything

He lives atop a hill where the floods cannot breach.
The hill wasn’t too steep; on foot, he could easily reach.
The manor is spacious to house all his potions and treasure,
But small enough that, day and night, stock he can measure.

He has an infirmary with healers for many an ailment.
To fix up bones, extract poison from blood, and illness of the mind’s curtailment.
He had a small court of close confidants and advisors,
And only for times of need, a few highly skilled warriors.

The bedchamber was a perfectly neat space with a four-post,
With just one comfortable pillow and one throw to boast.
A generous hearth for a cold winter night,
A single grand window to let in the day’s light.

His study is filled with books of gallantry and adventure;
A large wooden desk filled the room with splendour.
The quill scribbles on paper convey his musings and thoughts
Some list hunts and plans for him and his argonauts.

He spends his days with his merry band of men,
Riding, playing ball, frolicking, throwing feasts, and even dancing now and then.
His heart knows no worry that his retinue cannot mend;
Time passes, but his youth and beauty are not the least bit condemned.

Is there someone in his manor who holds his heart, you might ask?
Not as of yet; no man or woman has risen to the task.
Is he cruel, parsimonious, of poor temperament, or cowardly, you inquire?
Hardly! he is kind, generous, chivalrous, and brave, and stirs no ire.

Will he ever look for someone whose heart he could hold, you might ask?
It is uncertain; it is difficult to see through his obscure mask.
All who attempt to win his heart, one question they bring:
How can you measure up for the man who has everything?


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