Of One Discretionary Compliance
Four walls surround.
These cold hands, bruised feet,
The moment is bittersweet,
And I am bound.
He stares, I stare,
Amidst gruelling warfare.
With four eyes that speak,
And one scorn, so weak.
The ropes cut deep into my skin
And my bones shriek in agony
While I miss the moments of rhapsody,
And think of my twin.
Eyes crave violence,
And he kills the deafening silence,
With flying chairs that collide
As he declares, "I'm Strijd".
Didn’t think it'd warm me,
As he reminded me of Stockholm,
And also, of a friend, Guillaume;
Is that why I'd willingly bend my knee?