I see her and I know her
at once.
She has years and hair
and curves and commas in
her bank account. She has
things I will have but do
not currently possess.
She has flames and thighs
and lightning and wings.
She has power. Most
importantly, she has
patience and an
outstretched hand. I
swear to God I see her,
legs and locks and bare
feet on a throne of her
own making, forged of
sweat and dedication and
self-belief. Her palm is
soft but it is
open, offering a
hand up. A leg up. A word
of advice and
encouragement.
She offers love and
wisdom and asks nothing
of me but that I answer
the call. That I find
and secure and utilize the
building materials of the
throne on which she is
seated. I see her, and I
am in the throne room. My
hand pierces the veil of
time and I draw close,
hungry, blood in my nose
and dripping from teeth.
I see her, I worship her.
I am close to becoming
her, subsuming the mirage
and the myth until my
hips fill her ghostly
outline, and my eyes burn
like victory from her
sockets.
Royal Rose 