She’ll never know

Wonderstruck, she beheld her kingdom
Incomprehensible, the path of her ascendancy
In the sempiternal pause of a heartbeat
A king’s inscrutable command for his princess, or a father’s incoherent rhapsody for his daughter

She’ll never know

Her two greatest loves vanquished in a breath, and now she looks out upon the other
A commoner, no one suspected for it was unimaginable
He stands stoic, his gaze lifted toward his queen
Yielding not to the jubilation around him
Yielding not to welling springs
He knew they would be untogether hereafter
What of a man who swells her heart with venom for the country she must now care
Is it possible to love too deeply

She’ll never know

Now the queen, she must uphold the law of her forebears
Anachronistic they may be, she must put first that which binds the lands built by her ancestors
Perhaps she can change them, she is, of course, now the queen
What of a man who beguiles her avarice to seek desires over the sine qua nons of rule
Is she so arrogant to think she can bend the will of the gods

She’ll never know

It felt like an age ago when he grabbed her attention
Even now, his distant presence takes her breath away
He has unapologetically stolen her heart
And the only thing he yet holds as his own, is her hand
If only now, it was his to take
What of a man who would thieve the world, and lay it at her feet
Is she courageous enough to be the queen of only one

She’ll never know

art: by Aaron Griffin

Movie night

Moonray nocturne
at sweltering dusk,
sweat bedighted lines
from the pale actor’s
whip, rake his torso

Obdormition onset
by ignavy, recumbent
on his bed, mesmerized
by the spinning blades
overhead

The rotation mingles
with blueish hues and
shadowed cues; dust
provides the grain
in this 16mm strobe

A movie projection
flickers to life, of life;
choices and decisions,
questions and questions
and confessions

Obsessive palinoia
righting the wrongs
into award-winning
fictions; speeding ictus,
ceding critics

Spinning blades, subtle
invitations made, keratin
knives and bloody palms,
paresthesia spreading
with breaking dawn

Celluloid swatting,
end of the reel, marks
start of the real;
until again movie night
comes around