A green fire burns my heart,

it's now or never, clock swings,

an awkward metronome reminder,

we'll be gone soon, your hand on the,

pawn; mine's on a queen, empty and gone.

 

Hand moves piece,

queen dead by inaction,

rotting and decaying in another,

time, when a queen meant something,

special, but any unique nature died long ago,

hand removes piece from playing board in a flurry,

of traded blows that left both sides weak, pathetic, and vulnerable,

trust me.

 

Something broken in time;

no Ticktockman willing;

and all the king's men,

failed to put my life,

back together.

 

That shell broke long ago,

and I slipped out of it,

into someone else.