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.