The French Queen

There they were,

The fatal steps ,

To the flashing blade;

To the final edge,

Inviting and calling,

''Come to me.....'',

It said, cheerfully.

She proceeded;climbed on,

Her hands bound,

And her tyrant;

Her husband,

Had graced the sharpness,

And was laid,

To rest in peace.

Everyone before her;

Man, woman and child,

Craved to see her dead;

Resting white and cold.

Her heart beneath her breast,

Beating their final beats,

Hurried to beat a few more,

Within their severed time.

Her grand couture,

Soon to be stained in gore,

Cleaved to her form,

For dear life.

Her held up hair,

Straying loose from their coils,

As if their desire,

Was to see the world,

One last time.

She knew not her crime,

For a little girl, was she,

Who did none any harm.

There! The final step,

Reached by her crying feet.

Her heart was calmer,

Her eyes were drier,

As resignation spread.

They exposed her neck,

And she closed her eyes.

Then, from her shoulders,

Dropped the head,

Of Marie Antoinette.