The Queen
Tied up in his world, wrapped up in her mind.
The expresssions of tomorrow,
Grew old and sour, when they heard of the new king,
The women wept with children unborn, in blackened sorrow,
Covered up in silken robes, hidden behind heavy doors.
Lead paint and bloody floors.
Imprints of the king.
But the land did sing, the land did sing.
The great king brought men to life with his simple cry,
Chants of flowering futures and bright skies,
This was his omen to all men, he was the all high,
Sword shivering in the wind, held up, piercing the tender sky.
And his men were inflamed with his words and smile,
They chanted back with reverence in harmonious reply,
The sun will rise again,
For you King of all men,
Above us all, in thy throne,
Its light and our souls,
Shine for you only,
It is and will be.
Again and again.
The king was pleased, fire ruined his eyes,
A man of ambition, ideals, humour — All dry.
He was lost in the cheers, those symphonic lies,
But he would not grow tired, he would not grow tired.
His beloved, hid her beauty beneath her blue veil,
Her love lost, to those warring men,
She had fought his fall, from grace and good. She had tried.
But now she was tired, now she was tired.
A Queen, tied up in his world, wrapped up in her mind,
Her pretty face weighted with despair,
She let a tear scar her cheek, she did not care,
Was she the only one who wondered why,
And with that The Queen, let out —
A sad helpless sigh.
Read more from Brian Culley
~ And Poetry After Dark
