A fate worse than death itself: Boleyn ®


An unimaginable foray into the depths of your heart.
A journey of uncertainty, questioning the end before the start.
Anguish and torment driven by yearning and searching.
A soul waiting for destiny to lead it on a path
that may end in death or a beginning - reaching
out for the unthinkable torment thats aghast
at your plight. Sorrowful mirrors of enquiring minds
the eyes brim over and you, like those before, will find.

A candle flutters the softest breath upon a dim room.
Solace found in meditation within that gloom.
Anxious eyes flicker towards the glimpse of sky
apparent so high up that Tower's menacing cry.
Boleyn sits wrapped in ancient velvet and fur
struggling alone with sorrow that should not be hers.
A fate waiting to be decided as the gulls shrilly tell,
her face wet with emotion of unimaginable hell.

Your senses reel against the fact and fiction,
bringing a head and heart into due friction.
Soothing moans of solace and despair wrangle,
your inner-self a solitude, yet rebelling lifted up high,
the soul reaches up to escape from the mangle.
This very essence of impeding doom, squashed and wrung
out of dripping callous-made fibers - your being so awry.
As to an executioner, you must walk, your life may be done.

The chatter of children, the light impedes the dark
as the very first day the creatures left their ark.
Merriment drifts into her lonely doom.
Alone Boleyn sits waiting and prays to her Lord
as the crowd's gather for her spectacle to bloom.
Her heart strong and composed, reconciled with death,
she awaits footsteps foretelling her release from
misery that engulfs a living being and yet,
an unimaginable foray of fear grasps her last breath.

Suffer the headaches of anguish that shatter your dreams.
Life swaps away from a grasp of those papery reams.
Soft and subtle the thoughts elude, and still
they rear up encouraging a person to brood.
What? if and why? is the cancerous cry.
So be it, is that it? we know not the answer why.
These tiny indisputable, shimmering grains of sand
washed away by time in an hour-glass of moods.

Her anguish welled deep, with each chop of the wood.
The youth of her years and passion, not understood.
An exciting chance that life rarely brings
to face death head on and beat it, overcome it
was hers to decide. that youthful, alone early bride.
Like me, Boleyn suffered immeasurable loss for the Ring
of Old Man Time and a story cut short in life's harsh gambit.
Apart - with a sorrow and despair for lost unfound things.

So we walk on in the light and dark of the unknown fear
grasping and clutching to all that was, and is, dear.
Leaving a trail of silvery threads, slug-like we continue
to wend on uncertain futures, that cosmos of indifference
that blights our raison d'être. Banished here-in with due
resonance. Our trails of existence left for those still behind.
Boleyn and i share the same axe to grind. A possible demise
to encounter each fall of the day and the - unstoppable sunrise.

Thank you!