Queen Bee

With her graceful gate, and a small soothing smile, she had a clean slate, all worth her wile. Now fresh and new, a pistol to shoot, hot steaming brew, her pain dilute. Her inner torment’s gone, foggy through still seen, she was a simple pawn, up against the Queen. Her dreams are on fire, hate fills her hair, words never tire, nor seem to care. With screaming strikes, and fire all round, then chaotic lights, She’s on the ground. All but a memory, reliving it every day, when you talk about Queens, careful what you say.