the word thief and the last queen II
my land was dry and cracked
there were no words to feed the earth,
no words of hope and warmth and light
to draw green things, new things
from fields of dust and shattered glass.
my heart broke for my kingdom.
not all stories begin once upon a time.
my streets were hollow and thin
there were no words of joy and fire
no words of mirth and memory
I walked my citadel’s cobblestone paths, and
they did not remember me;
they had forgotten how their stories went.
the wind tore a scream from my lidded soul.
not all stories need a king.
my crown was heavy on my head
there were no words,
no words of might and valour and conquest
in its dead jewels.
I flung my crown into the smithyfire
not in despair,
I would sing a new sword into being
from the shards of my broken blade,
for the strongest blades
are the ones that have already been broken.
So I breathed new words to life.
I sang of sorrow, sharp and poisonous,
I sang of winter and spring,
I sang of fields of gold and dead queens beneath them,
I sang of green things and the stories that feed them,
I sang of the phoenix and the wolf,
I sang of my blood, my land, my heirs unborn.
I sang these words of life and fire and death and magic
into my blade
and my blade sang for me
in the bittersweet light of a new day.
it sang of battles it would win me,
it sang of my kingdom, whole and joyous,
fed by new words, words birthed from blood and bones
it sang of my quest,
of the words I would take back from the word thief;
it sang of victory,
it sang of death.
not all stories are written in stone.