The blood that blushes about your most tender places.
In the vein that travels along the garden
That all the roses to bloom here have known.
You hold it still and yet you tremble so…
And that knowledge is mine alone.
Tell me my king, when did I dethrone you?
Tell me, so I can splendor the victory of my loss.
A king had asked so firmly me to bed on a wintry day.
And here he lay meek, undone by the trembles onset by a single rose of his many.
I have made a peasant boy weep my king.
And the salt in his tears was akin to the feel.
I know the roses here don’t die.
They are sent to other chambers of other men of similar caliber.
And they too think me immortal in my duplicity.
But I, my king. I take your crown upon my leave.
The palace in ruins at the snowy footprints left at the doorframe.
The crown does not fit, but dangles about my leg in play.
The roses to bloom in your chambers will wonder at the thorns I’ve left in its stead.
The thorns adorned in your most tender places.
And those places still blush and tremble so.
The tremble that will in time rattle the bones of its olden host.
Have you find that crown, it will no longer fit you.
And in the chamber where I bloomed, a reverie will twinkle in your graying eyes.
Naked at the waist.
Immortal in the dozens.
And you will tremble once and nevermore.
I’m in the club drunk. I don’t want to be here, but my cousins asked me to come out. So, here I am with a glass of something gross and boom! I suddenly start thinking of this shit. I don’t like it but hey. What do you think?