The Queen’s Command

Gentle images
sit and stain virgin pages.
Pretty are the words,
hands are clasped behind the back.
Submission wrapped around a pencil
he was the Queen’s poet.
Keeping eyes from eyes this time,
while in a praying position, 
he begs for her control.
Her swift decisions
are always final.
The days keep rolling,
just as her popularity grows
she’s all too distant.
He, in charge of her words
beautiful lyrics made for entertainment.
Whatever he wrote,
was ignored, almost neglected.
He could only write to himself,
about a woman in control.
She was ruling in a dominant male world,
until one day,
the order was given
“Go gather his writings.”
The royal inspection
years of words had been created
sitting heavily in his throat.
Her instruction,
created this fear invoked reaction.
He protested,
“She can’t read all of them!”
The reply, dryly said,
“The Queen’s Command.”
His eyes fell desperately
on all his writings
hoping he had cleverly disguised
his serious thoughts of judgment.

In her open hands
golden treasures adorn her room
her chamber was filled with his poems.
His eyes were folded downward,
crisp were her words
“leave us.”
Her stare heavily upon him,
“So Poet, you think you know me?”
Baited was the question.
Forcefully biting lower lip
his response needed to be guarded.
Her polished tone then grew louder
“Do not make me ask again!”
A surprising moment, as he stood,
looking directly into her,
“Yes My Queen, I know you.
I have witnessed kindness
one time offering to pay 
more than the negotiated price. 
I’ve seen your cunning fists
with little or no remorse
like the sentence of a starving thief
repayment being his head.”
These freely spoken words
hung heavily in her room.
That first look,
standing toe to toe with her
it was the first time
he felt the stinging rapture
now in her eyes.
Her poised golden stare
such a beautiful treasure,
if her eyes were to be his last
then so be it.
Effortlessly, she circled him
hand touching the back of his neck.
Standing ominously in front of him
a finger was placed under his chin.
“You’ll listen to me,
is this understood?”
He smiled,
such chances come just once,
and if death were to be his sentence
then let it be done.
He stood and fully,
Kissed her untouched lips

The risk of touching her
was a defiant test for sure
that most would not have taken.
They lay ravished
with fruit-stained hands
slowly dripping nectar.
The Queen no longer
in command.
The Poet being her release
weaving the most beautiful of stories
under a drunken moon
the finest of silken sheets they lay under.
Each tasting,
the seconds in hours. 
Just one season
was stolen from the erotic Gods.
This was the only place
for her to be taken.
Deep within his hands
her trust was unconditional
words rolled across the other.
Feverishly making love
it was then, she made this gentle promise,
“From now until forever
I will know of no other.”
She softly touched his cabernet lips,
and left.

Days slipped into months.
The kinds of months 
that lasted for seasons,
three to be exact.
She was seemingly away
on an endless vacation.
This, her poet,
wrote feverishly for her.
The Queen had captured him
and kept him in her sacred temple. 
Hours he spent writing in the dark
just he, and his candlelit flame.
Eyes became desperately tired
evident drops were dripping
the virgin paper, now wet.
Touched by her inner corners
he longed for her
perfumed laced scent.
The taste of her hair
against her late night whispers.
He would catch himself
turning and looking,
to echoes,
but just echoes he feared.
Then out of nowhere
his door burst open.
“Gather your things.”
A stunned reversal
how everything had just changed,
but then a surprised instruction,
“Leave those writings.”
A confused look,
and then he remembered
he knew his Queen.

The Queen’s mood was clearly evident
vibrantly full of a new energy.
Yet, She was distastefully distant.
Wanting her to clear the confusion,
he paused and stared. 
His poems were in golden frames
circling her entire room.
Some hope he carried,
until the wave of her hand
dismissed all hope.
They stood their in the center
of their once ravenous room.
Instinctively, he reached for her.
She graciously turned to him
and offered him his comfort.
He was the only one
allowed to touch her
in this kind of way.
she started with a whisper,
“You once said you knew me.”
He looked sorrowfully down
he knew what was coming.
The poet replied,
“No my Queen,
I was wrong.”
Then silence.
She glanced, and he too
because there in the corner
was his newness.
They watched the other for a reaction
for tiny movements,
and then she spoke,
“Your prince.”
The Poet fell forward
desperately against the child’s bed.
With tears,
such gentle tears 
she touched his shoulder,
“Look, he has your hands.”
The poet reached
that first touch
their little prince held firm.
The poet and baby
glanced at each other
eyes falling instantly in love.
They were allowed just this moment.
The Queen turned
and tried to explain.
He closed out her words
fighting with denial
taunting her,
“Please wake me from this dream.”
His gaze now upon her,
“You know not what you ask.”
A plea before the final decision
the poet was without his words.
He was instructed, 
“You will let go of his child.”
Her dutiful command,
“This is the only way.”
His coarse voice mouthed
“Then I shall die a thousand deaths.”
She picked up their prince,
“No my love,
for we have your words
adorned all around us.”
She walked around her chamber
each wall covered with his poems.
She turned to face him,
“Here in golden picture frames
our prince will always know of you.
I promise to tell of our love 
and how you adored him.”
The poet fought against her words,
but as he stood there
he understood her plan. 
He asked,
“Why did you choose me?”
She stared at him for minutes
holding their child,
until it was whispered,
“Because this world needs gentle Kings.” 
Turning to conceal her own hurting
it was then the poet knew 
he’d be Immortal.
Walking towards heavy doors
he said,
“When our son is king and asks why,
I’ll reply”
The Poet paused,
Looking squarely into her.
These next five words were choking him.
“It was the
Queens Command.”

*The poet is escorted out of her chamber*


  1. No no even it’s long and i do admit i read it a few times to make sure i got it all, it is not to long not for me anyway, it’s like you get swept into it and don’t consider the length at all


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