Continual awareness
of her lack of grace
jolting the bones
with an aching cold,
the perpetual sting
of peasant reality

driving her too deep
and losing sleep
waiting desperate for
the king’s speech
to restore peace.

Such desolate being,
unworthy of the king
she did crown
each night in dream,
he was far too proud

to even acknowledge
her devotion as it fell,
stained the mortar
on that stone well
that now entombs her.


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