You are no king. You are no glorious mountain range with sunlight melting each peak in a thousand shards of shattered stars over the valley below. You are no master. You are no groveling fool at the feet of Memory, nor blubbering mouse curled into the depths of shadow as a claw reaches toward your tail. You are no ancient lover, who pulls at each hair as if pain is a gateway to the soul of another who no longer desires your flesh. You are no forgotten dreamer, shackled to a promise or engaged to mistaken truth. You are no forgotten loner, for even the wind and shadow and rain and fog and dawn seem to caress as you step into the day. You are no hidden sorcerer, for your trickery is always there to unfold even before a child's naïve eyes.
I have you not on a chain but linked through a whispered promise. That brittle enrapture.
You are no master, no king, no sorcerer of light nor darkness. Yet I succumb to it all with body unfurled and mind heart soul for your consummation.
Not a king, no. But a kingdom you create in me.