He places the crown on his head,

Heavy isn’t it?

A burden to be worn,

And yet you still become the cause of many deaths.

Do you not hear their cries?

Their screams and sighs?

Do you not share in their sorrow or their joy?

Who are you the king of?

A broken country.

The subjects revolt,

You simply turn them against each other.

They can’t fight you if they fight themselves.

The bruised broken bodies pile at your feet,

Yet you smile.

Is this what you want to see?

A Queen powders her face.

She flaunts a smile of grace,

Hiding her seething rage.

She is a trophy of the king,

A placement, an object, a thing.

At the beginning he gave,

But now he simply takes.

All the smiles, and love, and words.

She bows her head and sighs.

A soldier draws his sword,

He towers over a group of girls.

They stole and broke the law,

Yet he turns a blind eye when his fellows recklessly swing,

Stealing from girls things they can’t get back.

How could he stop them?

It’s simply a thing that happens.

That’s just a fact.

A little girl runs,

Chasing a butterfly.

It was always ahead.

She was always behind.

It’s not fair

It’s not fair.

Why are only certain things chosen to fly?

A Girl,

A King,

A Soldier,

And a Queen.

In this story,

Who’ s really free?