In a garden trimmed with crimson dread, Rules the Queen of Hearts, painted red. Her crown sits crooked on a swollen pride, A rotten ego festering deep inside. She strides a board of living squares, Where pawns are people, caught unawares. Knights kneel trembling, bishops plead, But mercy is not a card she’ll read. “Move,” she snaps, with a venomous grin, Each game she plays is rigged to win. She deals out lies like velvet traps, Then laughs when hope begins to collapse. She’ll charm you first with sugared lies, A honeyed voice, deceiving eyes— But every promise turns to dust, Each whispered word a blade of mistrust. Step wrong once—just one misthread— Her face ignites, her fury spreads. The sky itself seems split and shred When she screams: “OFF WITH THEIR HEAD!” The air goes cold, the roses weep, The guards obey, their silence deep. No trial, no truth, no plea, no thread— Just echoing doom and rolling heads. So tread not near her crooked game, Where love is loss and trust is shame. For in her court, you're just a piece— And death’s the price of her caprice.
