The Virgin Queen, Pt. 1

This is an Elizabethan epic that i've been working on for a little while.

Figures embellished in sunlight grace
the landscape complacently
without care or worry of luminous woe;
with eyes of innocent perpetual throes
captivated by the sky.
Their dance of ritual and
bath of day in fields of rye
hold true to celebrations of
euphoria in small preparations.

 

A dreaming young man comes along
by way of equine transportation,
and makes way to the maiden's loving song
with no intimation of in mind desperation.
He asks of the permissive hand in question,
calling for midsummer nonsense dance
and way that soulful binds mesh them.
She takes kindly to his suggestion,
and counteracts his stance.

 

As frolick advances to touch,
heed that familiarity leads further to much.
Sunlight plays on jewelry rings and other things
with the two bonded souls in need.
Lit aflame with fervent passion she sings,
as he ventures on to explore with ecstacy.
Her handmaiden barges in on order of queen,
informing of strange findings of erewhile
and spite of the tragic times these have been.

 

Called to final chamber as heretic accuser's waiver
is the key to the maiden with mane of Fire;
led on to London with tragic view of spiked heads
desire, she carried on with the strength of her Savior.
Her despised sister of outspoken Catholic descent
sends for her confession of public religious repent.
Aye, she's not to, in spite of her wretched father Eight,
and swallows her Protestant profession in defiant wait.

 

Godless endeavor of betrayed slayings at stake
and beheadings in kingdom rule's wake weather
the dwindling force of the Bloody woman,
desperate to conceive offspring with man for sake
of preserving claim to tether with foreign wing.
With hysteria in present of queen's miscarriage,
the man of Spain deserts post and port fling
as factions of others bear fair claim upon whom is down
to secure their own stain on the noble English crown.

 

With botched conception rendering none a line to heir,
messenger and men flock to the Last Tower as she waits there.
Incarnadine maiden is thrust into despair of none such a future
hoping that the tumor is the final prick and thread, last to suture.
As her sister with hair of Flames is informed of the melancholy,
Mary strays for one quick moment to see to the frantic calling
of a queen sinking in turmoil, wavering under the weight of falling.
In the courtyard of her last seconds, hectic for death to come,
her last days portray the withered nightmare of a woman undone.

 

"It is God's doing, and it is grand in our eyes."
The recognition of a Virgin Queen in the wake of usurped skies
leaves the fate of a people in hands seemingly uncapable,
erelong the the state of country paltry and less palpable.
Since the departure of the atrocious Eight and wives
Divorced Katherine, Beheaded Boleyn, and third wife Died,
Divorced in pain, Beheaded yet again, and sixth nurse Survived;
legions and scores have defied the iron knives of a Queen despised.

 

Author's Note

that's all i have so far.