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.

Consistency is a king who refuses to grow up.

    Dig in.
Chew a little  
   That’s it

They fought with swords and shields in sorted fields

of acrimony, declared life and limb to a barren kingdom,

bowed to the royal crown and wooed its fairest daughter.

They won her heart, graced her walls, and worked within them to produce an offspring

—a love child forged with the will of iron and a random, but possessive eye chart.

It nearly took the death of an empire to bring this passion to birth,

and here it so rests upon her breast, pleading an allegiance to her tattered flag.

Why even a thousand years of war demurred to her letting down her hair.

But whose army crossed that wanton bridge and stroked her into carnal submission?

Who kept watch at the crossroads?

History tells us c'est la vie was the culprit, and détente the better angel.

Sometimes it's useless to be useful...

Oh Desert Prince!

Your existance is like the wandering golden sand of your fascinating desert;

Light enought to flow through every chambers of my heart,

Gorgeous enough to be the life of the caravan's artistic mirage;

Your love embrace me with sheer darkness and chills of starry nights,

But warm enough to captivate me to stay within your sight;

You are the desert Prince,
You flow like poetry,
Amaze like magic
Priceless unlike jewelries,
And your love seems like a beautiful tragic,
Awakening my deepest desires that I didn't know even exist;

Loving you is like enjoying a never ending magic carpet ride,

That keeps me on edge whenever passed by a strong tide;

Oh desert prince!
You keep me mesmerized how Scheherazade did to Shahryar with every story she brew,

Not Arabian nights though but there's always an unfulfilled thrill in every word you sew;

Oh wondrous prince!

Now when you have played the most melodious echo with my heartstrings
that'd shy away the Qanun,

I'll never let go of you,

Though I don't know if I'll ever have your heart as a miraculous boon;

I remember my place,
the one you promised me

You were going to shower me with jewels and royalty. While I danced for you in that throne room.

My kingdom has gone dark, somehow you left me,

yet we are still the king and queen of a miraculous tragedy.

Slave of briers courts
regal, purple, velvet robe
Picture perfect rose