The Crown

As though dying
a dozen deaths
from backstabbing knives
reaching the tenderness
of my heart, as we sit,
helpless bystanders
to the cold
Game of Thrones
while my soul blackens
and crumbles
with longing
for vengeance
I wipe my tears and prepare
for another war
to be lost,
another wolf
to die,
another House
to fall
with the constant
Who will wear the crown? Who will
have it all?
As though seeing
inside my wounded mind, feeling
my need
tilt my head your way,
pledging your love, your life,
anointing me Princess
with the power
vested in your lips
you restore the wholeness of
my soul
with yours.


  1. hacallum1 says:

    Really enjoyed this poem and the method used to describe what the speaker in the poem is feeling.

  2. C. M. Turner says:


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