King and Queen

Burning summer, mornings of slavery were a whip of light makes rain under your feet. Then on your bed, a demon hunts your sleep felt by the rising flames that touch your chicks, under the sheets. 

Crawling to finally breathe. It seems impossible been sealed with your own silky skin, fighting. With that, you call the brain to wake you from that burning slumber. 

To then become a slave before they call you brave, because you challenge the flames and every step you take is another whip brand. 

Bodies slaughter by their master, but who can blame him if his condemned to greet us without end. All he knows is to bow down to a queen that he, himself hasn’t seen. 

Dancing with her back to back worried that his whip doesn’t leave any scars because then he will no longer be a star. Now he has to leave with that sorrow knowing that his time is borrowed. 

Or because this is only a man with a King and Queen in sorrow.

--Kristopher B., Adult