The Queen

From far away

all I’ve ever wanted

was a sliver of her attention,

and I know even asking

was all together too much

for the Queen.

With half shy delicate eyes

it’s always been hard

to speak frankly to her

the last time I voiced and opinion

was three years ago,

she hasn’t talked to me since.

And yet,

she insists

that I keep these words going

perhaps for her amusement

knowing she holds the power

I’m just the servant.

I didn’t ask for this,

torturous life,

words that amuse the others

bringing some sort of joy

to their tepid lives.

After all or

happily ever after

she’s the Queen,

I shouldn’t forget my manners

because buried deep inside

I hold her somewhere else

above the others.

I know how her walls are adorned

all gilded and charmed

all of us know

she has everything anyone could ever want,

so why me?

These lyrical words

written exclusively for her

have been a greater testament

to any other kind of love

any greater love

she’s ever been used to,

still, she’s adorned by many men.

Seriously,

what difference  would it make

if a poet with all his words

were to ever make a Queen

wait for her words.

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