(for Lutibelle)
My heart follows
the barbed lobs
zinging across the court
excitement and angst
curdle my blood
These are my brethren
whose arrows intend to wound
whose slings intend to cripple
The Quean sits in the new ark
upon an eastern shore
fielding data
from all sources
Emissaries assert
no one else spares
the time or interest
to sort and file
who’s gained entry
who’s newly annointed
who’s MIA
Occasionally her majesty
sends out requests for
film recommendations
just for fun
The Quean has served
her subjects like a royal conscience
soft as a whispered confidence
purred in silken tones
across the network
deputized to makes things
right and make things
happen and save a
pretty penny to entice
new members to the kingdom
This Quean holds gentleness
within her breast and
faith in God within her soul
She lays the truth out
like a fine field of clover
inviting all to tread softly
lest truth be crushed
under the weight of
those armed with
the last word
the final pronouncement
of right and wronged
Joy, Joy, the Quean encourages
Love, Love, the Quean espouses
All the fielding, sorting and filing
making, righting and saving
only matter if we learn to dance
to the music of the galaxy’s stars
connected by our rainbow feathered boas
hugs and kisses for one, for all.
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