as king, do you ever knock?
as king, do you enter her tower
before she has even let her hair down,
or let it grow long enough at all?
as king, is all that ripens, blooms and flourishes,
just for you to pick,
hanging from the tree,
rooted in the paradise you claim to own?
as king, do you treat her like
the medium rare deer on your plate,
like something to be covered in sauce,
to be devoured, like prey?
as king, do you ever mistake
greed for lust,
boorishness for decency,
and bluntness for sincerity?
as king, does your keen eye drift
in boredom as I write,
onto another soft-curved creature,
hedged in the wilderness you roam?
as king, do you ever call out for the queen,
just to hear her voice, hear what she has to say?
and when she answers back,
will you listen, too?
as king, can you sit tight, tighter?
as king can you pull yourself together?
as king, can you begin by