eyeS ahead By r. Becket

The King of All

Ojas Sharma

uPon a Bed, a WhIte SkuLL LayS for Me, and gaPeS oPaque goo; out a WIthered roSe froM cLIckIng cLockS Before the eden’ S tree extendS aLong dePreSSed confeSSIonS’ WoeS. on My fLoor, tearIng thornS hook My SkIn dry. of red BLood LIke huge, StrangLIng handS of dread. IS fruItLeSS Beg In Mercy, to LIve By. aWaItS no orderS, that SkuLL Who IS head. But I do dare tranSgreSS agaInSt the kIng, for I StILL care and Stare the eyeS of voId. or I forget the taLeS and hoBBIt ’ S rIng, yet I acknoWLedge I do not avoId. the cage of thornS hurt More eScaPIng death

than takIng My forever, fInaL Breath. aS the Breeze fLoWS acroSS your SMooth SkIn, you can feeL PeLLetS of SWeat drIP LIke raIn the ground aS hard aS a voLcano’ S Inn and the SouL actIng LIke a raPId traIn.

In the Park, aS I run By a caLM feW the Weather today ShaLL Be at a hIgh PLace Made for aLL; even Me, even you, fatIgue rISeS aS My Mouth BecoMeS dry.

But raIn toWerS doWn aS It ruInS aLL, My LegS Shake aS If a toWerIng tree runnIng Back In the Park, feeLIng a SquaLL arrIved feeLIng LIke a PIece of deBrIS.

through aLL of the MotIvatIon It ’ S true runS In theIr PureSt forM do WeLcoMe you.