Knee-deep into study of an usurping 

toad uncle, such a villain this,

and there, from the corner of my mirror

stands she.

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. 


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