To be a maiden on the throne,
To sit discarded, all alone--
Resting calmly, dutifully listening
To stories of a child’s christening;

Counting bows and curtsies,
Surrounded by awe and “Merci’s,”
Her expression reflects frustration,
Expected distance, mutilation--

The symbol of a country proud,
Her innocence like a garden plowed,
A beauty she is to all she meets,
Though with a cold, false smile she often greets.

She harbors no illusion, no pretense
Of her knight coming to her defense.
When the time arrives, she will board the ship,
Float quietly away on duty’s trip

And pledge to dream of him no more,
Leave him standing, frozen, on the shore.
One day she’ll be a queen
Of some far off country’s scene.

Tucked aboard a leaky vessel,
Dining upon a rotting trestle,
She will prepare to meet her stranger king,
While her praises the troubadours will sing.

With her King gone off to war,
Over old letters she will pour
Entranced by love’s sweet, gentle woo
Soft as a dove’s lovely coo.

She’ll dream of her young loss
Waiting across the sea’s stormy toss.
Each night she cries herself to sleep
In her King’s lonely ancient keep

As her knight’s ghost silently creeps
Through her mind’s haunted weeps.
Now a queen on the throne,
She sits discarded, still alone.

This poem is part of my collection, Immortality Lives...Embracing Poetry in a New Age. There are 85 poems in this collection!