The Queen of Hearts
makes her move,
adrenaline chess
to construe.

The enzymes melt
her painted frown,
with head held high
she adjusts her crown

She remembered who
she once was,
anticipating
breathless pause.

Around the King
her fingers grasp
to set him on
the Bishop's path.

And by her hand
he meets his fate
he is no more
by her, "checkmate".

The country can live
the king is now dead.
The rebellion exchanged
a crown for his head

The guillotine answered
the blade was released,
but third law prevails,
as actions repeat.

The uprising's father
was next on the list
for it to continue
for it to persist.  

A revolution can die
when they eat their own.
Sir Isaac was precise.
Robespierre should've known.

My body causes
a chemical reaction,
with the help from
the laws of attraction.

I store a nectar
my pheromones release,
it serves a delicious
butterfly feed.

Oxytocin
is what it's called,
in my belly is
where it’s installed.

The butterflies swarm
when oxytocin’s produced.
They come to digest
the catalytic juice.

Flipping and turning
eating ravenously,
filling me with bliss
a divine ecstasy.

There is no other feeling
that I can compare,
when the butterflies dine
from my stomach lair.

Trust is an illusion,
a complex metaphor,
that blankets insecurities
with the closing of a door.

Trust is just perspective,
of wanting to believe.
The power of our thoughts
can be easily deceived.

Trust can evolve.
It never stays the same.
It falls in and out of favor,
from the relationships you gain.

I only trust myself.
I can see my own self through.
Nobody has my back
quite the way I do.

Break a leg everyone!
The show’s about to start!
The scripts have been rehearsed!
Everyone should know their part!

The curtains will disjoint
under the spotlight’s glare,
while the audience awaits
in the elevated chairs.

The performance was electric!
An Emmy worthy play!
They bought it line and sinker
much to their dismay.

You showed them conflict
and fed them fairy tales.
An epic distraction
for dramatic ticket sales.  

The crowd will pick a side
and it will resonate,
cognitive dissonance
for us to captivate.

There is no left or right
in this theatrical brigade.
Self-serving is our mission.
We are one and the same.

And they will never know.
And will never ask us how.
Because the show is finally over
as we take our final bow.

I cursed the moon that day.
I cursed the moon that day.
Nothing’s been the same,
since you’ve gone away.
I cursed the moon that day.

I shunned the stars for you.
I shunned the stars for you.
For they won’t last,
they’ll fade out too.
I shunned the stars for you.

I cloaked myself in night.
I cloaked myself in night.
Bathed in darkness,
I’ll never see light.
I cloaked myself in night.

Orwellian madness
became fashionably late,
thirty six years
from the original date.

Fiction is front page
and truth is just a stranger.
A platform subscription
with prevaricator entertainers.