The Death of a Queen

The Queen stood surrounded, by jeering, clamouring crowds,
beleaguered on every side, with no place left to hide.
While her King stood in the corner, consulting once more with the Bishop,
the Black Knight slowly sidled to the only place still allowed.
He was enjoying the moves and the elegant ride.
He’d been skirting her for hours now, like baiting a silver fish hook
his sweet words and twinkling glances hid the truth of his game.
Her only aim was to save her Liege, her Lord, her indolent Love,
he of the fine apparel, the armour, the velvet glove,
he who would always linger, lazy until the last.
When the Kingdom was at its end and he had no valiant friend,
Perhaps he would remember her, as the Knight sliced off his head,
After his Queen was dead.

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