Poetry

Iron filings

The Kingdom has fallen silent,

doors bolted and keys buried.

The queen took her heart and locked it away

to save the cracks from spreading.

Her child was taken and turned,

puppetry at its finest,

made to dance to the tune of war

and march across the border.

Blood ran back and drank the water.

The people bathed in it,

they had nothing else —

and fell to the sharpness of the iron within.

 

 

 

Poetry

Onwards to the rotting tiles

The chess piece is split down the middle,

parading as two – in a mirror you can see

it whole, moving puppet-stringed

across the board, never waiting for a second

to consider the effect having the image

of an extra player has on the other pawns.

One side is stained black, the other bleached,

but what of the grey space in between?

Sticky, sap-covered moss disguises it;

no-one can see that inside they are the same.