The Crown

 

 

Centuries fought over gilded stones.

Horn and hoof challenging claw and tooth.

For adornment bled from holy might,

To bless one brow kingly-bright.

 

The towering royal crest was his

But bounteous victory alone

Was but half the spoils won.

I was displayed for all to see.

A trophy at his side, thirsting

For the mantle upon his head.

 

Think not his regency rightful.

By his libels I am reduced.

Labelled pretender, provocateur.

Branded feeble beneath his forceful paws.

My sistren scattered…slaughtered.

A right God-given, he claims.

 

With rampant pride, he rules.

Maw set wide, ravenous,

Consuming kingdoms, gold, awe.

He roars with savage triumph.

Posturing, grooming,

Burnishing his prominence.

 

Your king. My jailor.  

At his side I dance to the jingle of my chains

And mock his glorified ignorance.

Scaled beside him, he thinks me forlorn, servile.

My choker binds my voice to whispers

But I am far from silenced.

 

Inspiration can never be censored.

Exhibition cannot be ignored.

Immortalised before the kingdom

My defiance rouses liberty in the downcast

And shames those who would use shackles

To keep us, the unbridled, tame.

 

He has but one fear. My own brow.

Crowned sharp, steady, ready for my chance to take,

For someday when I dance

My ties will break.