prettyboy

In the absence of the king
he is humbled
In the silence of his thing
he is crumbled

He is blue
darkness
down
to dive in
invoking an aftermath
his mouth has a motor that spins
out automatic spell craft

He is somber
a decapitated
object that is
mine
twisting in tongues
a worthless whim
has its time
my body is your surgical sponge

In the service of the queens
he is more
in the distance of the greens
he is sore