On a slow Sunday, I read a book,
It was a story of a king who did no good,
Drawing the picture in my mind,
I fell asleep, going back in time.
When the king, brutal yet wise,
Showed no mercy, only vice,
The picture playing, in my mind,
Was a killing, none other but mine.
He killed me for a reason I don’t know,
Tears trickle down my cheeks as I saw,
With shaky limbs I woke up,
To darkness around, no light showed up.
I went back to the book, hoping to find clues,
Why did I see a dream so not good?
Flipping through the book, I found,
Blank pages, it built a void.
Wondering if I should read from the start,
Not feel defeated or a broken heart,
With a glass of water, gulped down my throat,
I decided to start on a new note.
I was killed by the evil king, maybe for a crime,
Or maybe by his will, I let him pry,
I had to change the story, in my way,
The blank pages, were there to stay.
rskoshe 