Perhaps, some narratives are best left untold,
For more often than not, we do take for granted,
how tragic life is, when dark irony unfolds,
and miserable fates are, for those most coveted.
Countless of suns has a pure diamond seen,
and countless forgotten in the womb of its soil.
To coronations, to courts and wars it has been
yet to rest on its throne, it has made empires toil.
Graced a guillotine, and kissed a brothel floor,
adorned a tainted fleece, watched a hall aflame,
never loved, forever owned, present’s queen, tomorrows whore
always lying waking still, the unblamed, the unnamed.
Your only sin my hopeless dear, beauty is your only dress,
always left to watch the reigns,of nations grieving solace past.
Instead mourning helpless there, if laments you could possess,
as moaning harems do for now, and you, the tyrants save for last.
Truly, things most useless are, playing host, precious most,
and every lovely face does not, of akin beauty tale a’boast,
for those we envy are at best, those we pity by the end,
and that which we may lust for most, must Alas! to us attend.
Poems & People 