Mary of England

The air is breathing, beating

The lights above humble themselves so betraying a feeling of one's suffering

Our chains are stacked loosely to a destiny of rebellion

Destiny being one sided and ill forgotten

Each gaze criss-crosses the other

Determining and so explaining our next move

I fumble my gaze and it is taken with thirst

With substance to be digested and slain

Plagued by my farewell I'm satisfied the opposing eyes have accepted my acquaintance, though I morn my uncertainty and take my thoughts elsewhere.

Irregular and wild my thoughts may be

Are they not easily transformed from shameless misuse

In all aspects a fortunate commodity

A stain ebbing like the sea, exploiting my achievements and filling my purse with sovereign ransom

Much do I that falsify and permit to contaminate my redeeming skills and offhand behaviour though without regret to say

So rare in fact that to attract more eyes would constitute a skill of extreme temperance and sporting subordination.

To wear this mask can one blame one for being discontented or taking the credit that yesterday was labouring to give direction.

Do I ask to bloody my nose or restrain my breath to your lips

Infinitely I go forth to unleash my watering eyes not on lambent flesh nor a nettle that I fall foul of, but a lady of youth.

My lover, my fille de joie has rehearsed her part well

I know she is congratulating herself on a unpleasant job well done

In reality, I am a commodity, a thing to be abused to the sum of eighty five dollars or three hours work.

The path of the brave flows staining our flag with the blood so red that minds open to thoughts of pure death.

At birth we die honouring our brave living only to be secreted in our graves.

I step on his face and withraw my glistening blade from amongst his swollen tongue.

How the tragedy that besets our world robbed us all of our sanity. That we endanger the lives yet unborn. we are sterile stripped of human feeling, only our passion for life will survive.

You speak obscenities we are denied ourselves in life. I try to shield from the poisonous gases his naked flesh releases to the unprocessed air. What kind of hell do they send us to. And so it ends in fire, pain and madness. I die without ever knowing the touch of my child's hand. And even though we die I am content so long as we die together, for I have always loved you.

Mary of England continues