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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

A kingdom of his own

Another palace

Another home

To reside in


He calls himself a king

But he's too inept

What a concept

A king


One who reigns

His power fueled by the sun

He pounds his way through bedlam

The velvet robe dances


Oh but the weight

The weight it holds

He points his finger

He scolds


The dust doesn't settle

Yet he maintains

Embroidered soul

Tilted crown


He guzzles fire

The burn rises in his chest

No room for hurt

Bringing comfort


The eighth of his kind

The bell chimes

When a woman loses her mind

He grows cold


Giving little

Taking all

He reigns

The enslaved

Submitted: November 11, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Soul Nightly. All rights reserved.

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