by Nick Gisburne
She wears a crown of horns and splintered bones,
To bind the sick perversions of her reign.
The throne, where thunder cracked its cornerstones,
Is bloody with depravity and pain.
A fractured line of coldly butchered kings.
Her father, brothers, murdered in their beds.
By morning she was given golden rings,
A queen before the priests could hide their heads.
Installed by those who power lies in her,
A puppet of their making, caged and bound,
They bow and scrape to clumsily confer
A kingdom to the callow girl they crowned.
But vengeance is a force without finesse.
Before the dawn their blood will stain her dress.
