The Queen of Hearts

The Queen of Hearts is sad.
I see her restrained smile,
her eyes betray her weariness.

She gazes into the distance
and not at me;
I wonder at what she sees,
or is trying to see,
or if she were even seeing
anything
at all.

The Queen of Hearts grasps a flower
in her left hand –
her scepter of four-petaled symmetry,
not of rule,
but of tentative offering,
of self-defense.

Her reflection is turned away
in the opposing direction,
also gazing at an indeterminate point,
as blind as she is seeing,
as fractured as she is joined.

The Queen of Hearts holds no heart
in her hand,
she holds nobody
in her gaze,
but she holds the whole world
blindly
in her fractured
soul.