The Princess’ Gala

By Damien Knight

Dressed to the nines
Not understanding
Fancy occasions
And nonsense dances
Why must I look good for you
When every other day you prefer
My death like stare
And rotted flesh
Here I am combed
And dressed
For a gala of fun
What fun, me,
I must be joking
My flesh grey, tattered
My eyes are empty
I am not to be dancing
I am to battle
Yet take my arm
My lady I will dance
Just this once
With you my beloved


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