![]() HarlotA Poem by Anne Bathory![]() A perspective upon Anne Boleyn's final days.![]() Worn violin strings, Decayed fabric and withering flesh, Despite the darkness surrounding me, And the blade all but brushing my neck, I cannot help but fret over the lines upon my flesh, The softening of a once firm bosom, Was it the tell tale signs of aging that turned your gaze astray? Or was it the cries of such falsehoods that truly turned our love to ash? At the wave of your Majesty, I am left only to ponder, In variables of silence and screaming, These are my only reminders of what once was, Of the world that once was, And the world that could have been, From a King's w***e, To a King's Queen, I've returned to the status of whoredom, Yet I have no King to tease and taunt, Only the stench of death, And the unsympathetic ear of God, Oh my dear Henry, Your mark is branded into my soul, Both burning and honorable, It pains to think of such things, To know that the only mark I shall leave for you, Is my blood upon the wooden planks, And the burnt up portraits of yet another unfortunate wife. © 2013 Anne BathoryFeatured Review
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2 Reviews Added on June 16, 2013 Last Updated on June 16, 2013 Tags: Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, medieval, Henry Tudor, Henry the eighth, England, royalty, nobility, beheaded, executed, the king's favorite, queen anne, notorious Author
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