The King’s Game

Breaking, breaking

A pawn of the kings’s game, a move of sacrifice

The thrusting of a knife

The king is dead


Am I anything?

What does being murdered teach a soul?

What does being a pawn with the knife teach a soul?

What does being the queen who gave the order feel like?


Slay me, but spare my heart, for it is the only thing I possess of any value


Choose the knife carefully, choose one that will hurt the most

Choose the old scar, where the wound within still sours from its culmination ages ago

Fill your heart with hate


The king is your pawn, just another pawn on the frontline

By the glasses you wear

Why does he smile though he bleeds from your cut?

Why does he, though he is being crucified and knows who the betrayer is, not hate you with everything in him?


The king’s game is yours,

The king is your pawn,

But God counts them all,

God knows them by name,

God knows all of their ways

God knows their hearts, and their sufferings, and their desires, and their weaknesses


God watches every step they take, for to him they are more valuable than the king and all his riches,

For not even the king stands higher in His eyes

For the king’s value is stripped to its true amount: he is in tattered rags, filthy, and dirtier than those who were his pawns

He bows his head low because he knows he is no better, and he bows deeper than the pawns because he is the lowliest pawn of them all


Yet not the queen of the games shall stand tall, no

The queen who does not bow shall be cut in half

All should beware the God of the king’s game.


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