Poetry

Ce’Nedra

The vivid crimson locks crowning her head

speak only a fraction of the fire inside.

 

Small of stature, but tall and fierce

of will,

leaping onto the highest platforms to deliver her address.

 

All those waiting

wonder how this tiny being can hope to think

she can move the parade with only a few words.

 

Once she opens her mouth,

her voice soars,

thunderous compassion forcing their hearts to pound as one.

 

Their feet march without order,

the cause more true and just

than any they have heard before.

 

No longer a spoilt princess.

A leader, brighter than the sun.

Poetry

King Mold

Among the breeding rot – whispers.

I hear them stretching through arthritic

tongues. Knife to bone,

crown to head, head of the table

where judgement resides on platters of

purple skinned grapes already coated

with penicillin.

Yes, the medicine, I’ve taken it,

drip feed from a babe.

Things that are not normal

flag as normal.

Things that are. Obviously insane.