Shall I compare you to a summer's day?

You're better-looking, and better-controlled.

The wind shakes flowers, but you're sturdy, bae.

And summer is short and young- but you're old.

Sometimes the sun is too hot, but you're chill.

Its light may fade, but your face is shiny.

Nice things may not stay so nice, but you will.

No matter how old, I love your hiney.

You'll never stop being pretty, lady!

All of you is great, even your big nose.

You'll never look like you're dying, baby-

Those eye bags are just you, everyone knows.

As long as Facebook and Twitter exist,

They'll see you in this poem- I posted it.

"I don't usually say this, but that was god awful what I made." I look over at Jesus, who is panting and sweat is running down his face and beard. I smile at him. "Shall we try again?" He nods, pausing a moment.

"But where did we go wrong?" He asks. "You are God. How could it fail?" I look at the Earth. It's quiet now. I don't hear the wails anymore. No more calls and shouts to me, expecting me to take them out of a problem they put themselves in. Or maybe it was natural, but they blame me for mistreating their home.

"Well make them the same." I offer. "Same biology, same anatomy. But we'll change one thing."

"What's that?" Jesus asked.

"We'll make them more human."

     She was dragged by her arms, her feet already bleeding and bruised from the rough ground, unable to properly walk from the rough treatment. She heard loud and hushed voices, passed column after column until she was tossed to the floor, banging her shoulder against hard rock.

     Her head spun, her body trembling too violently as she struggled up, arms barely holding her weight, but she wouldn't lie on the floor like a kicked dog. She wouldn't cower like a child. Despite the pain and the fear threatening to overtake her, she steeled her expression and lifted her head up, up, up.

     He sat like the Greeks described Zeus, like Blake described Urizen, like the Jews described Jehovah— a kind of power that she knew she'd never personally touch fluctuating off him in mighty and terrible waves as he stared down at her. There was relaxation to his powerful shoulders, as though he didn't feel the weight of the years of war, didn't feel the pressing hands of the poor and suffering begging help from their lord, didn't feel the threat of her people who had been struggling for months, fighting, bleeding, dying against him. He felt none of them as he stared down at her with eyes that revealed only disinterest.

     Disinterest. As though she wasn't even worth the smallest bit of energy to feel threatened, or insulted. As though he couldn't even bother to care for the wounds on her feet, the bruises on her chest, the tears no doubt shining in her hateful eyes as she boldly stared, breath coming in short, angered breaths like a snarling animal trapped by the poacher.

     "Who is this?"

     She put her foot to the floor under herself, pushing up with an animalistic growl, making to lunge forward, but she was crumbling down on herself from pain before the guards could even move to grab her again. She heard a scoff from above, and felt the crushing smallness of her being, like an ant believing it is strong, the mightiest in the world until it meets the boot of a man.

     "One of the rebels, sir. She was caught with firearms and a sword, smuggling them from the reserves."

     "And where are the others?" Silence followed those words. "Fools. Instead of dragging this single pathetic child to me, you should have followed her until she no doubt led you to the group, where she was carrying the weapons. We need the whole lot of them, and the leader. I need the mother rat, not one of its insignificant pups."

     The plans. The pain. The songs filled with hope on those brief nights, when even despair became too much too bare, anger no longer a satisfactory blanket to protect from their misery. The faces of those who had fallen. The speeches and promise of something better. The dreams and desperate hope for the end.

     "Perhaps this isn't such a disappointment." She looked up to see him still regarding her, renewed emotion in those blank eyes, grey like the sky before a violent storm, calm but promising disaster. She saw curiosity, like those in a man who wonders if he can still use a broken tool. "You were the messenger. So you know how to travel quietly. You know where they all hide, or you at least know someone who does." He tilted his head, the way a serpent does, luring in its prey before the final strike. "I will spare you, if you swear your loyalty to this Kingdom, to my Crown, and lead us to them or them to us. I will provide you with safety, assurance. You'll leave the squalor you no doubt currently inhabit with that pack of Mischief."

     She didn't say anything, looking down to her trembling hands. They had beaten her when they'd caught her with the weapons, heavy boots and the butts of weapons hitting repeatedly, over and over with the strength of fighting men, of powerful muscles, from all sides, with nowhere to hide, no way to curl against the bruising and punishing blows. 

     His law was clear. Treason was suicide. Rebellion was a ticket to Hell. She was lucky she wasn't dead.

     She struggled up once more, gasping out as her ribs protested, as her knees screamed when she kneeled. She straightened as best she could, staring up with a raised chin. She thought of her mother, her father, her younger brother. She thought of the life she'd only glimpsed in songs and tales of Before, the life they could have should they win, should they take down this force whom had swept over the kingdom like a plague, burning every last inch of beauty, kindness, or mercy. Some had lost that hope, long ago. Many, too many, and sometimes, even in this moment now— especially in this moment— she felt it too; the flames dying down, the cold hopelessness stretching out before her, forcing her to bend under this power that was just too big, too fierce, too powerful, like the ocean battering against the rocks, merciless and unrelenting, a kind of power that was uncomprehending to man. But, that's exactly why the only hope remaining lay with the Mischief; no single man should wield that kind of power.

     "With all due respect," she said, voice breathy and pained. "I would rather die at your feet like a mongrel than serve under your boot like a dog."

     His eyes didn't light up as he laughed, the sound more cutting than a sword clashing with a shield. "You give yourself too much credit, child. You're not on equal grounds with even a mongrel. You'll die in your cage like the vermin you are, prey to even the filthiest of beasts."

     She was caught under her arms once more and dragged backwards, away, her eyes burning into his as he grew smaller and smaller.

     "Sir, we've got another!" came a sudden shout. She looked over, and what she saw had her struggling, screaming, crying out, twisting frantically, kicking her bruised heels against the cement floor, begging, pleading.

     "Well well well...lets see if this little pup knows anything, and is willing to 'serve under my boot'. And if not..."

     She almost, almost, didn't catch his words as she was dragged away, screaming, pleading, thrashing as her younger brother was pushed before the king. 

     "...then lets see how much pressure we can put on him before she is willing to go from vermin to dog."