Queen of My Land

I’m a sailor, trading terra firma for freedom, non gratis.
I’m a farmer, swapping sweat for fruit in the eternal dance between the soil, the sky, and the seed.
I’m the worker, working for a paycheck, not joy.

Trade me:
Hand over the keys to your clamorous realms, and I will give you
Quiet spaces
Solitary walks
Time to yourself.

Exchange your cycle
Rotating blues and vibrancy
For consistency
And a royal army, here to defend your honor
I can’t promise total ease, dear: It’s not in our blood
But I can dedicate
Crusades to you
Poems with you
Books to you
And my muse, intact, beside me
Will remain you

I am not a herbivore
I like to eat you
I like to lay naked beside you,
Exposed, vulnerable
Real.
But I am no pig: I am a gentle man. I will not devour you, ever.
Nor will I try to conquer you or your lands.
Ever.

Consider this is an offer, then,
where I barter my labors for your love
My metal armor for your complete safety
where you commit only to us, and not even to me, because I know this is about the kingdom, and not the individual people in it (or is it both?)

I will remain acutely aware that this exchange is currency in soul for you, too:
I want to ask for nothing
That threatens
Intimidates
harasses
Or otherwise might cause the moon to be jealous
(I remember your agreement with her)

Here then is your scepter
Your crown, your robe, and your thrown
Here then,
You, my Queen of My Land,
I await to serve. 

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