This is a poem inspired by one of the images from Kevin’s No Theme Thursday (03/21/24).
The Dying Queen
In her still, grey hall she waits alone.
She has lost her realm, her healthy lustre.
Her skin is pale like ashen stone.
She sighs, and finds she cannot muster
the heart to sing with her winged friends.
Pale petals fall upon the floor.
She thinks that callous Death intends
to make her wait before his door.
Image from thebeginningatlast9.com
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