You Stole That Joy

This long poem articulates my admiration of women, their inner strength and beauty, and their quiet dignity. The twist is my description of a certain type of man who doesn't share my views.

Pierce open Her heart,
Look, ermine, velvet blood meanders,
On skin so soft
And snow white,
It could only ever enclose
a woman.
This daughter first of all,
Who in time, bequeathed
Her blood,
laced with strength and honour,
To a newborn,
Princess sovereign,
the fruit of her blessed life.
A life that declared only once,
Ambition?
That must be the passing of this blood.

Now aloft a plinth of mother pearl,
In state,
our Queen's final breath had
disturbed,
memories, worn, secret, locked away,
which were reborn,
And spelt out, one word,
throughout all her time on Earth,
what She had deemed, just
and right to share,
Her priceless, inner
Joy.

This sovereign joy,
through jester trick and magic,
gave new life to the now stone Queen,
and powered a new wind, that turned
clock and watch and dial,
to a time,
rare, yea, my Lady,
but which cannot be denied,
when the beauty of
this world,
shaped out by nature, and
coloured only to inspire,
was disrupted.
Air-thin shadows, black,
and conspiring to an intent,
that could only at that time,
be whispered of.
Nay, the ears of man or boy,
had ever been so offended,
by the grievous shame of such evil.
A treason against the majesty,
the purity, and the heavenly rights
of this Higher Queen.
A plot to steal Her joy.

Once upon this spiteful and malicious time,
there dwelt, in an odd,
un-Christian house,
free of colour, space and air,
a dire soul or spectre,
fake, a mere imitation of man.
Yet still, through Her grace,
Signposted by Her open arms,
our hale and holy Queen,
a woman, impossible to compare
or judge,
Cast to this dandy a favour,
great yet undeserved, a request
to show an honourable display,
Of a practice learnt,
by lamb and calf and foal.
A custom as old they say, as
when sea and salt combined.

No lad or boy, reckless or
emboldened by their grasp
on mother's apron strings,
could ever conjure up
a spell or trick so foul and cruel,
so singular, so unspoken of,
A memory that was but gross assault,
on the purity and godliness of
all womens' souls.

Our custom says that
You, as a man,
If favour blesses you, or
by wild chance,
Fate may stand you
aside a sublime majesty,
then slowly bow
and on your knee, revere, admire, rejoice, and
make your gesture, one
that will enrich her priceless blood.

In your stead, you,
Commoner,
vulgar, obscene, revolting,
laid down on straw
and the dirt of beasts,
aside a loose, infested bride,
Whose very presence shames,
the name and honour
of all womenfolk in this realm.
You mistook your choice,
you, with your foul disregard,
for the duty of all men,
and the sanctity of custom,
placed your odorous stain,
black and dark and rotten,
on a timeline, royal, untouched
before.
You stole that joy.

Now see, as you lie in your paupers grave,
your one last look,
Undeserved,
blaggard, in your eternal
Shame,
covered in stone and dirt,
that conceal the savage wounds,
of self, coin, wench,
all self inflicted.
Through narrow eyes compare
the fate of One you knew,
Daughter, Mother, Queen,
Outstanding in her beauty,
with yours,
and lament for all of time,
for it was
you who stole her joy.