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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.

Faraway Daydreams 

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Sapphire essence ripples in respite
With ashen puffs of ivory afloat
In ruminatiom of the pond’s birthright.
Its skin, the canvas, slick with thoughts devout
To mirror’s eyes elated; itchy throat.
The oily figure pale with pleasant cheeks
And smile of glist’ning sustenance and note
Of voice’s deep embrace. A purloined peek
Inside this water’s surface tension, crazed but meek.

Who actually wants this worthless piece of shit?

Drowning on a broken boat,

No superman waiting to save me.

The sharks and whales greet me into their abysmal home
No amount of begging or pleading changes the judge’s decision–that kind of magic is saved for Hollywood

No relief against the pain; no softening the blanket of concrete beneath the fall
Your own life is worthless when it is sold for a penny and is still worth far less. For, who to stand beside and proclaim otherwise, even during the night of suffering?

None; for there the coreopsis sits, full of potential and power, yet the blooming flowers suffocate, all of them, into crispy husks, the beautiful melody forever whisked from their lips, the neglect soon to consume the stems and roots and destroy the entire body and soul of the thing

Consider not it strange, then, when the heart, the bastard piece of worthless shit that it is, is caged as an evil liar, and its pain sealed away with it, and permanent masonry erected around it as a fitting, isolated cell

Here lies heart. May it cause no more harm to its possessor, may it be forever in the abyss of hell’s torturing flame, may it feel the pain it causes the rest of us, without ceasing, and may no one think to comfort or console it

For I need it no longer, and desire for it has gone away with the final tide; for who needs a worthless thing that is always in need of fixing and never in possession of something able to fix it?


​Sick, the heart from hope deferred: dismayed.

The bindings loosen: slack, their tension’s part,        

Endorse the way, adulthood’s bubbling start,

For, free, the child to sleep, the funeral made.


Then here, I, fettered to the growing maid-

En’s hip. Will she, with eyes and ears depart

And steal my every turn of feeling, art,

And muse and sense of purpose, her upbraid?
To death with life, to death and no reviv-

Al, brightest shadow, failure’s torment smile.

Yet starlight sneaks among the heavens’ hive,

A midnight rainbow pregnant and fertile.

My soul’s strands knit to hers at every  seam,

To separate would never reconcile.

Sonnet to an Ailing Soul

Rip out from ribs this heart which, burdened, hurts

For to you, tied, your course my life’s sure end.

For if the winds do not make separate words,

The course of sails, then grave, mine, I should win


So dig the hole and load the chamber once,

The cheapened price of death, a welcome cent

For if I miss this tiny window’s grunt

All value of my beating heart will quit.


Love is cruel and cares not for a heart,

It cares not for its victim’s murdered soul,

Or the hurt and sorrow that imparts

Or fairness of the loveless burning hole


The days drop out like sands from hour’s glass;

Will they to funeral or wedding cast?

Well of Souls

The horse hair vibrates sweet the stringed note

Its color, ruby, rubbed across night’s ground

The moon, the violinist of the sound

That glides against the Well of Souls in gloat.


Too, nestled in its silhouette, a lute

Stained red does spew a spider’s threads—profound—

Of Music glist’ning amber in resound,

To amity afford the blushing route.


Explodes the demon’s wings behind the strings,

Her fingertips in strum of serenades

To gods immortal; footfalls on the trail

Betray the slender gait of holy mage

With magic’s thread of fate, the hand availed

Which tugs him forth to reap conviction’s wage.