For A Queen, This Self Battles!

Belittle naught of this self.

A herd-less herdsman he be,
Yet, a herdsman rod at hand,
Treading these valleys and highlands; tread he does,
Threads of charmful whistling of ancient tunes escaping this self’s lips chastening the lonely ranges.

A lone ranger in the vast wilderness; is this self,
Like a wayward stream, lost from the world like a treasure-hunt course.

Yonder, the horizon, a vision he chases,
Knowing nay, of whence shall mine heroics be exalted,
To the end of the earth…search for my vine.

Disrobed of whom inspired the stars to fall from the heavens,
Whose words stirred the soul and boiled the blood.

Swallowed whole into the belly of the beast that is her passion; swallowed whole was this self.

My queen dethroned from her throne in my heart.

Fly, would this self,
In then days when lilies grew up in the skies; in then days would this self fly.

Now, with the heights deflowered of the whiteness of the lilies,
The old wings that enabled he to soar high seem to have been made of wax.

Souvenirs of our encounters in the paths of the skies; just another bubble in my tiara of love.

Yet, there is life in an old dog,
This fight I fight – with great offense I lunge.

My enemies, ready your throats to taste cold steel in battle,
For you have brought the mean out of this self,
This self shall pleasure the hearts of a people with his rod skills.

With such will to tread forth,
Will this self soil your faces in defeat,
For he fights for love and with love he fights,
To throne his queen back her crown in his heart.

This self fights for love,
For I love she that I draw my sword for.

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