Photo by Alex Bracken on Unsplash
Queen Anne, pricking
her finger making lace,
livid at the blot
of sacrificial stain.
.
She felt happiness
was her only plot in life.
To pursue it with the
feathers of her ache.
.
Pain seeded in her
each season in the
garden of wild carrots,
so rooted with strain.
.
It was this dainty
diversion, this eternity,
in valleys distended that
discomfort eschewed.
.
No victory over desire
in a pain-constant denied.
She is not truly free,
fragile as feeling glee.
About the Creator
Paul Aaron Domenick
I write to break the psyche in half. What good are words unless they turn us upside down and shake us?
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