It's MLK day,
do not let it go to waste
as we remember

12:17 PM
18/1/21

A king will be a king,
His queen must be a shill.
Dare she were to disobey,
Stick her head in a guillotine.
The modern world seems so classical,
An era of error on repeat,
As if a broken record,
So to speak.

Her hair a factory of honey,
Glistening eyes of a little girl,
A figure of motherhood in need of a mother.
Why, she was just a baby,
Right from wrong?
She could not tell,
He wanted her,
He got her,
And they all danced to his tune.

She worshipped her king,
Loving him tenderly as —
The king worshipped himself,
Taking care of business.
An entire world heard him speak,
Yet never saw her.

Enslaved in a kingdom of grace,
While she was up,
He was down.
His majesty ruled rocking,
Molded his maiden,
And left her but to wonder,
Simply of his whereabouts.
The throne,
Lonely without her king.

A flawless woman feared flawed,
Merely a mirror of his honor.
A man of many mistresses,
Ravaged for *******.
Who was she?
She could not say,
A lover or a friend?
A mother or a gem?
In time past due,
She could not stay.

The goddess vacated his palace,
Long left to showcase his gold,
But even those walls reek of plastic,
Hindered by a painting left unseen.
They did not know him,
Neither did he,
Only did she,
And she is forced to eat,
At the dime of his memory.

She moves him ‘round the chess board,
dodging bishops, pawns and rooks.
She coaxes him from square to square
without a second look.

The white knight cannot catch him.
Piece by piece, the foe now yields.
Her king is safe; the game is done.
The queen controls the field.

Her biggest desire is time
she just wants to feel like a priority again.
like royalty again.
Everyone is busy
it's who you make time for:
It's who you prioritize and make feel important.
a woman like her
is down for you.
sticks by you.
prioritizes you.
She's busy too but she always makes time.
She's out in the big world
doing big things
and regardless
she still always made time for you
whether a knight by her side or not
she will conquer.

at the corner of my eyes,
i see you walking by;
no wonder you're crowned king,
any will die at the sight of your lips.

I sit upon my throne and stare
Looking at the empty hall with no care
Memories of cheers and excitement
And then I only had indictment
They blamed me for the faults that occurred
Traitors amongst my ranks who had it stirred
The price I have to pay for those I trust
Keep their words they must.
But no, they don’t. I see them running out
My Kingdom a Blaze and I’m with no doubt
And for whoever wants to be the king
Be prepared for what troubles those who say they’re loyal will bring

As potent as the drugs flowing from an IV drip,
I the prodigal son of this town,
the only one to infuse the blood of a much needed sacrifice into it's veins,
the one to carry the souls of those past,
those future,
those fleeting few at the end when the long standing foundation that has held up countless feet and dreams,
no longer stands and in it's place breadcrumbs fall,
thousands from the sky,
folly and few,
until embedded in the very ground it lands upon.

I, the one from the third house down the lane,
the all seeing all knowing all feeling touch,
climb the silo and above take in the view,
the little lives and scattered stories,
told once in still rooms with only the orange light of a desk lamps,
then carried away on drool into the storm drain,
with the leaves and street grit.

I, the babe,
once innocent and tender,
and still so within me exists,
carried through an entire lifetime on a sled,
down the sidewalk with only the sight of street-lamps as stimuli,
past every corner and home a dream implanted from my eyes to theirs,
yet mistranslation corrupts the many and what can I do but allow,
their own bibles to be written.

This town belongs to one king and one son on both sides of the mountain,
snow to teach them lessons,
rain to cleanse their wounds,
and to keep this monolith of a civilization alive,
all that is prophesied,
to run far, far away,
in place.