by Nick Gisburne
Her robes of golden silk are drab today
The armour chafes the creases of her skin
Will nothing turn these enemies away?
She does not want the battle to begin
The memory of war soon folds and fades
And peace is rarely found, though long pursued
The crown of serpents coiled around her braids
Proclaims her strength, or is it servitude?
The armies gather, angry dolls and toys
New blades of steel oppose her velvet hands
To fight, to die, her every word destroys
A future she no longer understands
She longs to leave the field, to leave the light
The Queen of Old, too weary for the fight
