The Keeper Of The Virgin Slave

The Keeper Of The Virgin Slave

He stands where iron keys are cold with memory,

A watcher at the gate of unspent breath,

His shadow pressed against a silent door,

His oath unspoken, yet it stains the air.

She waits behind a wall of borrowed light,

Untouched by storm, yet bruised by unseen chains,

Her name is whispered only in his thoughts,

A fragile thing he guards, and will not free.

He tells himself he keeps her safe from wolves,

From hunger, from the market of cruel hands,

Yet in his fist the smallest bird will break,

And still he calls it mercy, calls it love.

The room is bare except for dust and prayer,

A narrow bed, a window sealed with doubt,

Her eyes are oceans that have never sailed,

Her silence louder than a judge at dawn.

Who is the captive, who the truer slave,

The girl who dreams of fields she cannot reach,

Or he who builds his kingdom out of fear,

And feeds upon the myth of her pure breath.

One night the lock will rust beneath his palm,

The door will groan like truth at last set free,

And he will face the emptiness he made,

Keeper of nothing, slave to his own chains.