My poem has nothing to do with Game of Thrones or with Cersei Lannister other than, as an afterthought, her character seemed to meld nicely with the words/thought.
You stood there with your sorrow in a suitcase;
Another idle threat, we knew you wouldn’t run away.
Streamers flared when you claimed your third king;
Trumpets waned when he marched off that same day.
Strained and purple veins splayed across your face,
As though some child laid a crayon to paper-thin skin,
And grotesque words stuck to your Vaseline lips in disgrace
When he clipped your wings to Bach’s minor keys.
©My Mouth Is Dry But Yours Never Runs Out of Glass-Shared Words
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