Published by: April Despi
Date Published: January 19, 2023
Time Published: 9:31 am
Category: Poetry
Theme: Illusion of Power, Fate
Rust in the circles of her dreamlike Babylon,
The red buttons of life pull the knobs of her eyes:
In her stomachers and golden quoifs—
She's the queen of her austere grandeur.
This sovereign lady twits the twists,
And she rules to fool the sides of her rouged cheeks—
When you know her, you know death;
When you know death, you know Elizabeth.
She hunts cities to take down the witches,
The rising blood of the royal empire:
To baffle the wintry wonderers,
The knights must follow her.
No one harrows about her deeds,
She emblazes the deemed darkness of the woods.
And when comes the bite of the night,
She'll turn into a magpie with glistening red eyes.
The witch hunter is the witch herself,
The murrain blood is the rust of her empire.
The last witch must be the royal one:
If the queen spills blood, the kingdom will forget the sun.
The curse must've reft the living witches,
And she's the queen of her stilly crunches.
Her heart may lank if she gets wounded,
It will burst and her empire will see her lozel.
Her shunless destiny is to be the death,
And the witches must vanish down to her only:
She must tent herself to see her league,
The emulous curse enmews her rise.
The crown must be broken and the barriers must be lost,
Her debile existence is the death of life:
In her labras, she must say,
“I am Elizabeth, the cursed queen.”
Painting: Juliet (1877) by Thomas-Francis Dicksee
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