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,

 

no.

 

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.