he walks into the room with nothing but
the crown on his head and the room
hushes with the abrupt arrival of a royal
crystal chandelier hanging over skies
waiting for the time bomb to drop
and wipe them in a one clean blast
vacant, blank eyes stare ahead
coat trimmed with silver buttons
a cape of white trailing under his feet
languid movements of nobility escapes
with the rise and fall of his chest
his cold demeanor threatens anyone
who dares to cross the boundary
between him and the world he craves
(but he has strings attached to his wrists and ankles)
he holds a tongue so sharp he flinches
every time the words roll out and
caress his tongue but he shrugs
the sting away with a shake of his head
even though fear breaks out
into his bloodstream and poisons
the facade he built over sacrifices
(he comes heeding the call of the puppeteer)