Poem: I’m Henry VIII

 I awake in my bed in a familiar place,

surrounded by a canopy of gold.

The bed is made of the finest wood,

I expect the best, if the truth be told.

 *

A figure enters in priestly vestments,

then bows, this man of faith.

His words are carefully crafted,

he says Your Majesty, Henry VIII.

 *

I walk through the corridor in purple robes.

a musician dances and plays the violin.

A lady approaches with tears in her eyes,

it’s my unfaithful wife Queen Anne Boleyn.

 *

She kneels and begs forgiveness for her life,

should I grant her leniency or not?

Will she be given a divorce and set free,

or be killed, leaving her corpse to rot?

 *

The Privy Council asks me questions,

about my treasonous wife in the Tower.

I must decide if she will live or die,

God has given me ultimate power.

 *

I leave the room with no regret,

for I have ordered her execution,

But by mercy I forbid her burning,

offering beheading as a substitution.

 *

As I prepare to retire for the night,

the chancellor hands me the warrant of death,

I affix my signature for Anne’s beheading,

her daughter is now a bastard; poor Beth.

 *

Tomorrow will terminate this terrible marriage,

a final chapter in this extended nightmare.

Only one more day remains of her life,

a fitting end to this cursed love affair.

 *

The next day I awaken early,

but this is not my chamber or bed.

I’m in the filthy Tower of London,

adorned in a dress colored red.

There are guards surrounding me,

as I make my way down the last stair.

I hear a mob cheering loudly,

Only a few dare say it’s unfair.

*

People are calling me a traitor,

one claims that I committed adultery.

I hear someone say the name Anne,

compounding my horror, a terrible discovery.

 *

The executioner is sharpening his sword,

as he stands on the podium above.

The people shout terrible things,

saying I’ve violated the kings love.

 *

It is at this defining moment,

that any sane person would dread.

I have become Queen Anne Boleyn,

and now I must give up my head.

 *

I’m groggy coming out of a deep sleep,

the crowd is referring to me as a coward.

Relegated to some type of purgatory,

On the chopping block, I’m Catherine Howard.

 ***

Image: news.cision.com

#History #royalty #satire #fiction #poetry #England #justice #murder

Poem by David Andre Davison

One thought on “Poem: I’m Henry VIII

  1. Reblogged this on Author Raymond Burt's blog and commented:
    Belief I animosity do dwell me my tower, yes
    Roood cat my 9 tale do I head men’s block, my dearest Katherine
    Do else for my be shackle. Rotten dead it 390 years I pledge
    Do Arthur weep Tis my housing
    Mud Tis my fiend crow denial ted I mustard
    My rat, did I Cat weasel me, bailey exsatire admonised i wilt

    Liked by 1 person

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