The Adulterous Queen
(in Rome)
I am not me,
I am a queen in medieval times.
A visitor to the kingdom seduces me,
I let him
I do nothing
I let him touch me
Under the crowded banquet table we hid
Feelings of surrender and sexual heights
The guards tell on us
The king is ashamed of me
I never see his face
I feel my betrayal
I see images of myself being dragged by my extraordinarily long gold hair
Through the mud in public
And the hair piece falls off showing my real hair, shoulder length blond and tired
here, I wish that next they would exile me to walk the land,
Humiliated, nothing on me but the muddy torn royal dress I have on
PS from future:
*Assembling *
*hundreds of thousands worth of years *
*then suffering disconnection from it all*
*documenting what remain conscious *
*but the assembled library will be swollen by fire*
*ravaged fragments of a reminiscence survive *
*and so the research goes on*
*from scraps once more*
*more hardcore. *
What is there left of the truth? Whatever piece of vague or mysterious puzzle that men of powers have in possession is a sad token of what is left of experience. Of my work.
