She was given dust for color,
Yet, she painted with it.
Her canvas, however, was propped up against the wind.
The images she painted,
The words she wrote,
That once flowed like water,
Now disappeared like smoke.
The forgotten rule,
One that the Queen had long held,
The forgotten war,
One that the King still felt,
The quiet palace,
Only competing against her very self;
All of these thoughts held hope somewhere,
That one fine day, she’d be able to tell,
A story that no one knew or heard,
One of a man, a woman, and a child burdened,
And while the two held poison,
She held dirt,
Never ceased painting on the canvas
That had no worth.