Knee-deep into study of an usurping
toad uncle, such a villain this,
and there, from the corner of my mirror
She whispers fierce curses, eaten up by
anger and a loathsome sense
of entitled bitterness,
wishes only for retribution
of the dead.
A keen woman in the desert
placed a stake through her story’s
villain, not even a lead role in that play,
and yet you murmur an aside.
Is it possible the curse lain on you,
the sickness of the rich your
playwright stitched in conversation
might render your disposition
of your order or principality,
and not the fairer race, that
princes in their greatest desire
to foil an evil plot would be only
left in words and not in acts?
Phantom, tell me you are dead.
No living, breathing queen would
sound so helplessly for kin.