Sandra.

Our next Queen
Will be dressed in rags.
A bearer of wishes unfulfilled
A dreamer of unoffered things petty
Her holiness, flesh
Her scepter, flesh
Her counsel, silence.

Our next Kingdom
Will starve.
They will know our hunger
As a state default
They will know our scorn
As royal attention
And a handful of praise
As the payment of service.

Our next King
Will be dead and alone.
His kiss will taste bitter and forced
And his smile will be lost
In the folds of disdain.
A meager lord of mistrust
By choice incapable of missing
The princely days
When he was willing to give
More than enough
When he was willing to spend
Everything.

'Tis for others to want for completion
Through alien skin and words that are wind
'Tis for others to cling to the hoping
That everything might be enough.
Our next war will be for nothing
And our efforts, for us.