Decrepit nobility.
Nebulous mornings churn
as they always have.

“A yoke for my neck?”
Freely granted.
Witness the teeming hills clamoring as sun-slaked men
scrape for water.

Chthonic underpinnings.
Lavender souls,
their quickening delayed
by a velvet chain.

The dawn closes just as she awakes.
Her sweeping gaze a torrid curse,
a blinding yawn.