There’s a woman standing in a field.
She stands alone, staring into the horizon.
A crown of marble and glass upon her head,
A coat of indigo fluttering at her heels.
In her hands she holds a sword,
Silver peeking out from dripping red.
A field can be many things; today, it is an undug graveyard.
A crown can hold many meanings; today, it means a cold victory.
A sword can only tell one story; but it never will.
Her sword will remain silent, stained.
Her hands are stained, deeper than the splatters across her fingers.
She can’t remember what it felt like to be clean.
The gleaming metal of her blade mocks her.
“See how easily I become clean. I am the worst of you,
Yet I hold no memory of the horrors we have caused together.”
She wonders if her own blood would be so easily washed away.
Don’t see the way her hands tremble against the handle of her sword.
Don’t see the way death clings to her form.
Look away from the blood staining her hands,
If you don’t see it, it’s not there.
Marvel at the Queen who walks with a sword at her side.
See her in her beautiful ivory-white crown,
See her in a strong coat of indigo, the color of her Kingdom.
She her stand alone, a Goddess among men.