Queen Anne and her lace

Grappling arms of the harkened underbrush
threaten tyranny of a patrolled tightness
sometime in the Now.
I hear a battle cry beckoning from the borderlands
and a sobbing from the overthrown.

My helpless scent lies dormant
I wait for her orders,
a foot soldier I am,
licking blades of green yellowed grass as
underground revolutions resurface.

To the sound of plunging hooves
crested, her dried-red bridal veil rides
craning against her side-saddled dominance,
all for all, with, and to
a blue-blade drawn tight against her thigh.

You know her,
You’ve seen the Queen before.
She’ll have your head
And wear it tied to her saddle.

This entry was published on July 24, 2012 at 12:04 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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