You are not my king, nor I your maid.
The world of men
is blessed with a brutal unawareness.
When I say I’m afraid,
that this isn’t how things should be.
Through vacant eyes
all you can reply is
‘Looks like nothing to me’.
You, the man for whom
the world bends and twists
as you move, uncontested.
Unconcerned, with the filth, the rot
you created.
As it discolours and stains,
what would you see in the inkblot?
Would you even care to look?
If you could feel, for a moment
how this world shifts, tilts
and bows under your weight.
Would you then comprehend
why we treat you
with such contempt, such hate?