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.
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