When I was young, I built a throne of roses,
and said, “One day it’ll be I who sits
there, with a scepter of silver
in my hands and a beaded
crown woven into my hair.”
But shadows are tricky creatures, my friend,
and they stretched across the lands
with fingers that drained the blood
from my skin and cast
my heart in dusk.
Now I am old, and sit upon a throne of thorns,
with broken glass plaited
into my hair, and a bone dagger
in my hands that weeps
tears of red.