…And there she sat on her cushioned wooden throne
Pale skin and cold eyes.
Strength of life and memories passing.
Succumbing weight making shoulders weep.
And there she sat, with gathered hands,
palms surrounded by her ten-fingered army.
There she was all alone, just waiting on her throne
Waiting for life and leaning back gazed at the sky
for there was no roof. Heads being held high.
Often in contempt for being scared and lonely.
Too often mistreated by wind and water.
Too often abused by loneliness and fire.
And, what else would she condone on that wooden throne,
Misunderstood on her cushioned throne, with killer legs and weeping shoulders.
Heads rolled like thoughts before pikes of pain and a hurricane.
Words not meant but being scared and alone.
But there was no roof above her throne and her feeling were made of stone.
And on that wooden throne she sat all alone
starlight of the night and the moon kissed her cheeks and made her stand.
Holding hands and falling stars, warmth of love and unending night.
Beauty of life in all its delight…