She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
awaiting champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies to entice
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams, unconscious bliss, 
offer drenching. 
Hydrating water falls 
drawn down, release all pretense. 
Surrender to fate — 
or collaborate in adventure. 
It takes a Queen to drink 
from the sacred cup, to 
read the trails of sludge, 
to answer. 
She heeds serendipity’s call, 
heals her aching wound, 
hears soft moisture mark her path. 
Cracking ice spells runes to 
guide, sprite luminous shades. 
Wavery blue, ectoplasmic arms 
trace salutations. 
This is not lucid dreaming. 
This is the sign promised. 
Taste the frozen blood; 
know its story, sharp, shining. 
Live the legend, 
even when 
it is furthest from your mind.