Monastery

There you sit, your throne of thorns,
Watching, observing, pick and choose,
Sitting, unmoving, trying to win.
Unsettled, restless, you leave me.
Purposeless, or maybe just self-content,
Nothing obtained, nothing undone.
Your faces they turn, intense,
Each face a new thorn,
Pricking and prodding,
Etching its lines, on my hands.
On these hands that are perfection,
These hands that bear your whips.
Pretending that you hold a wand,
On that very throne, you stay,
Your scepter will soon lose its charm,
As I turn and walk away.