A King Takes Back His Queen

Jejune yet febrile, a mist, vapid, envelopes a bandit and his prey.
The rapist’s, the thief’s, fire’s glow where a silhouette’s statuesqueness 
resides within its limpid crescent of crackle sound,
a shape translucent, a lady her silent throes of sorrow,
she awaits her death and mocks her executioner
with unrepentant beauty indifferent,
and bites his lips, so arrogant, proffered.

She, as oboe within my heart gone mad
that melodic svelte tremble, that writhe of sense
and stride tender yet quick as a rose’s prick
in swoon of orchid tales determined as torrents
a Viking-burned dawn throws love driven to heights of sway
for freedom is mine and hers to relish this night, the last
and O so long it shall be for the rapacious-of-heart kidnapper,
and she senses their soon-to-be-demise. She spits and laughs and sings.
Her spirit is iron and diamonds. 
The wren so winsome, taunts the hawk   

She knows my tread, feels my rhythm and the owl’s eye pivots
soundless sound of my murderous rage approaching in the night.
Her abductor this night shall slowly and by design
curse his long journey into lovely resting fields
and his cronies shall know in my eyes that such horrors
shall they be subjected to a hundredfold slower and worse.
They shall linger on in life long beyond
their eyes and ears and noses and teeth and skins.

She brave, her rage supple as breasts mothers ready long
before the dawn when they know their babies cry, is my soul
in a meander of joy as I, my army and our razors rush
as rivers have carved the history of lands and melted crowns
and poured these symbols of pirates down the throats
of foolish thieving and flaccid, false kings.
Like small boats traverse bringing their cultures
and the cacophony of tribes, some bestial
many gentle, wise, though savvy in ways of war,
so shall she and I meet tonight at last again
within a madness of lovely daisied ardoured meadows
which I shall feed with the blood of traitors
to the sun and mist, entice as lips not allowed
one last vision of life through fiery gleams
of hot and whitened starried steel through sockets
pierced and dug slowly out
as though to give birth to worlds, history,
perhaps, too, and even the spray of noble blood gone clotted
like dung of goats by infamy and kidnap so foul
and even more foolish of my queen, so fair, to be taken
as a mere pleasure.

Her eyes shall gleam
as they these bandits so slowly
roasted and skinned and fed their own minds stripped of flesh
so lustful they beneath their cries and whimpers soon to be born
like air. 

I stride deeply through the forest
as a fair angel might kiss death to a resurrection
and death impending into her heart instead and heave it
into the shells to be of the pirates around the brutal yon glow
that shall remain evermore, save rule of noble hearts.

This is my love for you; oh, I raise my sword, how,
mist bursts I am upon the stage of brilliant light
sounds of thunderous melee upon this night

I part the skies with my love,
your joyous cry, my roar.

The gushing of throats and their cries shall be prolonged
that Springtime, its gentle wrens and Bluebird songs
shall be most oddly ardent and the field
merrily fed of this night.

Then, I shall wear my crown no more,
for what has glory and justice
but the falling of another false Heaven’s reign?

There are true rivers eternal to make love in,
and melodious drums

forever winged.