The queen quakes.
She slumbers, unencumbered by callous thoughts
or splintered, shredding worries.
Her bed is soft, but bears my
blistered hand by her side; a
bold brandisher of battle-blade
and blood-bludgeoner.
It trembles amidst comfort, laid
in domesticity.
Nothing to say about this one. Just a return to the eponymous 'Plain Praetorian' poem.
Expect more, for better or for worse.
2 comments:
i dig your way with the narrative arc even in such a short piece. ditto the consonance; it's your balance of art and satire that really succeeds here i think. i can't wait to see more.
Very Beowulf meets Victorian prose. I much approve.
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