Gates as Options, Failures in a Field

I laid my sword down,

explained that my war had ended.

I would be king of my castle square;

if only she’d be queen.

The square isn’t too closed,

there’s plenty of space to roam, explore.

But your hand will always be in mine

your word forever etched on every wall.

Easy for a king to claim monogamy to his kingdom:

for whence have kings built empires

around no bloody, capital centerpiece?

The vigorous heart; autonomic and too strong.  

The gates are closing on my square, darling.

If the fields were navigable I would send a courier

but they are vast and sparse.

Perhaps you’ve been ravaged already.

Not by pigs nor bears, no; by the notion

of option which holds no walls, nor queenship.

I can’t hold my gates open much longer;

for every minute spent holding them up

is one less spent on my love.

I can’t let my square suffer, solely

because you’ve lost your way.

If you’re looking for a throne

that seats you more comfortably:

I fear you will search fruitlessly and I,

die heirless.

I pray to thee: see God in my eyes.

Find peace in certainty,

or honesty in uncertainty.

Take your words off of my kingdom’s wall

or fill them with hymns to our reign.

I can’t hold these gates forever,

for my arms grow tired and cry

for relief of stress and tension.

They hold today to break tomorrow

the next I die lonely, or praise the lovely.

Oh please, let it be praise.

I can’t hold these gates forever.