What is a king without his kingdom?
The peasant says he's nothing
The king says he's free

I smell the past tonight
It hangs low in the air, a brisk chill of what was
The scent the woods while it's too dark to see
Of new intense love and tattered affections
Of liquor and burnt tires
Of ospreys looking down at us from the pine trees
Silent sages
I smell violence and uncertainty, but that's here and that's now
It's mixed in with the past like gin with whiskey
Either one could light the soul afire
But together they're unnatural and bite like a vice grip
Slow and unrelenting
Ashes fall from my cigarette onto my lap
They smolder and blow away
As I would if presented the option
But I'm still here
My only stress is I'm void of stress
Defeated and quietly resigned
Mourning the lonely nights I never loved
Accepting the bleak days to come

I hate love lives
But I don't hate life
I just don't think I could get it right in 8 lives
Each one with 8 wives
That's 64 beautiful women
Thoroughly explored I couldn't find love in em

I relish in hate right...
But I don't hate life
I just can't help but see the stigma that you're stained by
Slithering worthless serpents working circles and sinning
I heard their hymns and verse but couldn't find love in em

I play to their hate right..
But they don't hate life
They're just vulnerable to the flames Nihilists lay by
Sleeping soundly certain that there was no divine venom
Pious verses were immersive yet rehearsed I couldn't find love in em.

It's subjective what's right
But I don't hate life
I just can't shape my morals and at the same time,
Sit in oblong boxes and keep my thoughts within em
I read your laws, codes, and odes but couldn't find love in em

You cannot oppose decadency then tell me nothing is sacred
You cannot tell me I'm too sensitive then barrage me with hatred
You cannot preach guidance if your moral compass is latent
And act so cavalier while advocating patience

You cannot tell me you love Jesus and throw his teachings in a forge
Recast them in the flames to a weapon for your scourge
You cannot read me scripture and cast the exile aside
For the blessed are the weak but not the weak of mind

Get your poetry in line
Is it a sonnet? Does it rhyme?
Can you keep the proper time?
Does it bounce in your head off the walls of your mind?

Is it deeper than I'm seeing?
Tell me, what's its obscure meaning?
Is it simply whimsical?
Use your words like a maple tap, plunge the sharp end into you

...Well let me tell you silly idiot, silly critic, you're insidious!
You're not fit to critique what is pure and true and intimate
So tell me my dear patron, what do you construe?
When you dig for deeper truths, topical ones elude