King Never

Approaching my throne of shadow passion
a broken sun, and zombified lovers;
more layers of dust, are all I uncover.

My skull is in her hands, gaze cast over the bright side of things,
dripping gray
and beneath each dismal moon,
my ghostly lips may kiss the pillow where she once was.

Taking angel hands,
one black and one crimson,
stained with memories;
a wound from the knife in her mouth.
They mask me, (this face smiling at nothing true)
'neath a crown of thorns;
One that pierces the soul,
and not the flesh.

Never feel her breath on my cheek,
one that would tattoo my skin with beauty's ink;
like a rat, starving, feeling weak
my veins pulsing outside the skin, ready to sever
I know I am King Never ...

King of the never going to be.
King of the never going to feel ... again.