I hold my head high as I walk into the room,
my flourishing robes,
my gentle tapping embroidered slippers,
rich expensive perfume.
And with a turn of my head
I quietly announce:
I am here and
I am who I am.
Though I may be laden with jewels,
and layers of thick crushed velvet,
and dense rough furs,
I am anything but arrogant,
I am the epitome of humility,
something I have developed through experiences with others:
guiders, angels, powerful beings, and
earthly and heavenly soldiers.
When I ride my horse,
each finger sparkles,
the light refracting,
there’s no need to turn the tables,
nor force my image onto others.
For when I enter a room,
I do so dignified,
and now I rouse from an afternoon dream,
was I a high priestess or an emperor’s wife?
I cannot tell my once-designated role
as the feeling of regression has never come to pass,
never a flashback in my mind,
so instead I sit quietly,
meditate, try to avoid falling asleep,
although if I do so,
I know my rest will be luxurious with
thoughts and rested muscles
as warm and pliable
as wholesome honey.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Slava Rus from Pixabay
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