She was the last Queen of France.
I am nothing special, on the lower end of the middle class.
She was graceful, kind, lively.
I am clumsy, selfish, and quiet.
Why, then, do I feel so connected to her?
Perhaps because I know what it is to be torn from a home, never to return.
She by the gleam of a wedding ring,
I by the bright dance of a flame.
We know what it is to put our lives in stranger's hands.
She gave hers to advisors, trusted them to guide her through the maze of the French Court.
I give mine to doctors, trusting them to make me whole, never asking why they must break me first.
Those strangers failed her, as I pray mine never will.
She gave herself to leisure,
Gambling away her troubles at the risk of her country.
When I am worried I find a horse.
Trot away from responsibility, no matter the consequences.
She was thought intelligent.
Oddly, still too stupid to be trusted alone.
I am praised for my intelligence,
Never allowed to do anything for myself.
She lives in the pages of history books,
I in the present.
We are linked by worry, by trust, by recklessness.
We are linked by our humanity.
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Two poems in a day. I'm on a roll! ~ Maria Hope
YOU ARE READING
The Dump
PoetryA place for all the random stanzas that flow through my mind. My life in free verse. I try to write at least one poem a week, so they will be added as they're finished. In the meantime, PLEASE comment. Praise is nice, but constructive criticism help...
