Arts & Literature
The Castle (Her Majesty)
Stone figures on tall walls;
Gold-woven tapestries
Heavy oak doors and garden fawns
Cold sits the throne of Her Majesty
The barren castle on the Cliffside
Whispers of a gown's hem at night
Restless strolling in dark, empty halls
The help packed up and left—her fault.
Who will be mesmerized by these fancy dinner plates?
The lush green fields, the silk bedspreads?
An ornamented vase, urns from foreign lands
Collect dust inside the Victorian storage chest
Potted poppies shrivel once the well dries up
Along the walkway that hasn't seen heels in days
The bones of this palace once had loud parades
Dig six feet deep for memories gone to rust
Villagers avoid the sorry site, saying, "What an unlucky girl;"
As Miss Fortune's chokehold presses against her necklace of pearls
Nobody comes to the rescue; they had better things to do
While the well-established weathermen preconceived a notion
That the ocean must swallow the house of the loneliest woman
Stone figures on tall walls;
Gold-woven tapestries
Heavy oak doors and perished fawns
Cold sits the throne of Her Majesty
The author is an emerging poetess.
