Goodnight, Miss Moon
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Goodnight, Miss Moon


Good-morning, Miss Crow.
The Queen, Queen of a throne that will soon belong to her, our Queen! She rests in the garden of corvid, untouched, in silken black gowns and folds of chaotic ebony hair, how it feathered out like wings.
Wings, her wings of crow, how broken they were from the King. No matter how broken, she sleeps, so strong and uncaring, we sing for her.

As the sun rises, The Queen of Crows follows suit, more elegantly, the sun could never compare to her diamond heart and obsidian mind.
Her figure was ghostly, influential to everyone, the King would shiver if he saw her, he would! She was no force that the consul liked, either.

Morning, Miss Crow!

Her eyes, “Purple!” we laugh. We the children croaking with our Queen. United, not against. How the withering King hated her eyes. “Purple?!” he would exclaim. He despises the colour yet he can't say such; for his throat is broken and his mind, warped.

We clap, for she alone is the most deserving. She feeds us seeds of hope and power; we grow stronger.
Yet something so amiss, how silent the town of fools had become in her wake, oh Miss Crow, do they seek you now?
Run, run with us my Queen, the silence is not in honor, but in deception, for you are no longer safe among the hill of hanged men.

We see, we watched. The beak masked child has betrayed your scrolls of history, our chance of throne.
Your children, we caw for our brother, but he ceases not. Our luck has expired; the blood of family has run cold, Miss Crow.
Your love, your loyalty, a waste! Dare the lies that met the King's ears harm the Queen, there will be no hope.
At what cost, she asks the children, her tears become our blood, oh mother! The cost of becoming a wretched lord, the title of a careless ruler has become so dry.

Echos, echos of screams, a battle cry of agony. The Ambassador approaches, the hourglass has run empty; we flee!
But alas, Miss Crow, your wings never healed, you could not come forth with us, in which we are forbidden to escape.

The rope of a slaved king coils around your neck, yet your eyes yield only malice, had you no fear?
The children caw in rejoice, a worthy heir of crows, lost as the ties of a false god drag you into the heavens, our talons reach for your embrace.

Below choking breaths, she whispers her last curses, the beaked child will meet an agonizing victory, will he regret nothing?
We will not let him forget! As your flowing hair stains their beautiful seas black, he will know his debts for every sip he takes. While your accoutrements of gold stain the clouded skies an aureate hue of every beauty, for every ascending step he makes, he draws closer to their perfection.

As he may think that is all, our blood shall drip into the threads of the finest cloth, for now, every sickening soul he lay his eyes upon will adorn rippling red silk. And to think that was all, we caw in thick laughter, for our forms will decorate the skies with you, our bodies of black becoming the nests of stars, uniting us!
Shall he ever try to dismiss you, he should remember his mask of bone once was apart of her very own body.

Oh! Miss Crow, your body wrapped in the midnight dress you adorned, curled into the darkest moon above, shadowing the skies, as no sinful city such as this deserves your light.
Soar higher than the rest, where the King can no longer hold you, where we can protect one another as a family, neglected by a kingdom of betrayal.

For now, we may sleep in peace once more, unlike the wretched King; he knows those purple specks of the sky are admiring his torment, he can pray and beg for the calm we experience, while we mock all he does.

Goodnight, Miss Moon.
Close your eyes, fall into the slumber of a Queen, as your battles reign victorious over the mind of a destroyed deity.

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