My lady by Connor Deeks
“Lady, I think it’s time to be going.”
Betwixt lady-in-waiting and butler,
Stands lord Richard the third and lady Jane.
Lady Jane how I have doted on thee,
Your every wish,
tallt above your servant.
I wither here,
beaten by the sea’s wind,
My eyes stricken
red as my lady’s dress,
By the sand
kicked up midst the coming rain.
“Do you not know
how childish you appear?”
Spinning
shoeless, seeking sweetness from him,
A retched lord
from the Archfield estate,
Stupid boy whom I
slayed in math lesson,
Until the ripe
age of twelve and one half,
When your father,
lord of our vast estate,
Plucked me from a
life of learning to work,
Nay to slave over
your whimsical ways.
“Lady, my
umbrella is about to snap.”
It is so windy
out here, my lady,
This sand so wet
I’ll be scrubbing these shoes
For hours and
soaping that dress for weeks.
Or maybe I’ll put
a match to it now,
A mere strike of
phosphorus and it’s gone.
“That gown was
for the ball my lady.”
Why do you insist
on your whimsical ways?
Your father will
be outraged, blamed on me
Most likely for
not reporting to him
Like an
indentured servant would years ago.
“My apron is
ruined, my leggings torn,”
I can’t afford a
new one, my lady
My outfit barely
clinging together,
What am I going
to do, my lady?
The weather has
become grim, let us leave.
“Did you not hear
me my lady? Miss Jane?”
My how I wish
this storm would ravage me,
Take me from this
endless servitude.
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