Sitting on a throne of iron swords
taking stock of lifes’ accumulation,
false queen throned with a daisy chain,
an empress of sunset
burning ochre over distant maternal curves.
Ermine entwined and rooted
where melancholy whispers,
all that I wasted, I do not regret.
As night descends
tickling skin in magical purple hues
the first diamonds appear adding to my wealth.
Je ne regrette de rien,
foolish to hold on when feet long
to follow tangents unchartered.
Two fledgling wings I nurture,
they’ll fly before morn
but not from this old ground.
Submitted for One Stop Poetry’s one shot wednesday