On my throne I sit,
With a hilt embossed in my fist.
All the pain I’ve borne,
All the weight on this throne.
The sword of my words beckons,
Your troop with innumerable weapons.
Come through, fall right at my feet
All fall to their demise and defeat.
The power of my mighty sword,
Quells the power of your hordes
The sword lustrous, grinning at its edge,
Blood dripping from all the carcasses it etched.
The crimson carpet beneath my feet ushers a velvet lane,
Taking me to another kingdom; your brain.
Now under my reign,
This kingdom remains.
And tomorrow when another queen arrives,
I will still be remembered as the queen who writes.
Even when she takes my place,
In your memory I will remain, for my words and my grace.
My footprints will never disappear,
And every word I said, you will still hear.
You belittle my words, oblivious of what they could do,
You’d fear them too, if only you knew.
This power that rushes through my veins,
For the tingling in my palm from my nails.
This power that rushes through my brain,
The power of overcoming pain.
Oh, never have I felt so powerful
With a sword, as I feel today with a book, full;
Of words inscribed with the blood from the barren lands of the battles I fought.
A book that brings me the happiness I sought.