Vachon Imagined

She is a queen.
Not for who she is.
But for what she carries,
And for what she earns.

Life stirs within her—
Children of shadow,
Children of flesh,
Children of mystery.

They are not hers.
They can never be hers.

To claim is to fall.
To fall is to be human.
To fall is to be a slave.

She drifts.
She melts.
She disappears
into the folds
of her own cloth.

She lingers
not as victor,
not as shadow,
but as the pulse of absence,
the echo of desire,
the shape of what cannot be held.

Their confusion without her—key.
Their desire without her—path.
Their blindness without her—throne.

This is the kingdom.
The always-known.
The always-been.
The forever-becoming.

A rich queen
is but a poor slave.

Her crown,
her life,
her fire—
It can never be tamed.