Don’t tell a hummingbird to stop dancing
For it cannot help to blend among the notes and rhythms of this world
Untouched by fear, by scorn, by malice
A simple life unspoken
I have to perceive that I will fall into the bear trap
succumbing to the quicksand should I choose to wander
Pulled into the darkness by the hand of satan
No! Not I.
I should rather go wings and soar
fly above those who would repress me, hold me down
into the flaming pit of liquid
would I fall into the inferno that awaits me
nay. not I.
I would fly.
My son will rule
My son will be king
I will not have it any other way! – Lo.
You will bow to me.
You will bow to him.
Together, we will rule a vast land.
For far too long has Henry had to ride on the backs of ghosts
A title long torn away, stripped, tarnished
As the no-thing child fades into the darkness
Obscured by anonymity
Now is his time to rise up beyond the ashes
and tear asunder this fallen land
taking all that he might, crushing those who would usurp.
Henry VII, King of England.
And I, Margaret Beauford, am his mother.
The silver horse has cast its weary light
Its coat, forever tangled
By the lies that it weaves
By the dreams it deceives
Where, praytell, does my beating heart go to fly
when instead it finds itself rejected, dejected
but never truly resurrected
Diamonds are stones
And gold is dust
Only love prevails
–Queen Elizabeth Woodville