Grappling arms in the harkened underbrush
threaten tyranny of a patrolled tightness
sometime in the Now.
I hear Her battle cry beckon from the borderlands,
while sobbing fulfills the overthrown.
My helpless scent lies dormant,
a foot soldier am I,
softly licking blades of green-yellowing grass.
I wait for Her.
As the underground revolutions resurface within me
all for all, with and to,
Her fidelity draws my blue-blade tight against her thigh and cause.
A dried-red bridal veil
cranes behind her side-saddled dominance,
plunging hooves crest a ridge in my Soul.
I know Her,
I’ve seen the Queen before.
She stands with sword drawn while I bow.
She will have my head
and wear it tied to Her saddle.
The Thread Is Red 