The Seven Suitors.

Seven ladies all await.
They smile, they curtsy, beside a verdigris gate:
Each a suitor with an eye for glory.
I stand before them,
Each presents me with a gift…
For though each lady commands her own army,
One will prevail forthwith.

The first comes forward slowly, thinly veiled in Prussian blue,
Her bare feet noiselessly pressing into the sand.
Kneeling at my feet she lays down her gift:
A handheld mirror, silver and jeweled.
Yet she only seeks to command my attention.

The second strides forward with her head held high,
Her gown loosely wrapped around her in layers of dark satin gold.
She reaches for my arm, and upon my hand she lays her gift:
A bold and lingering kiss.
Yet she seeks only my pursuit of her.

The third springs forward with intentional haste,
Her train of vermillion silk whipping and billowing behind.
Onto my wrist, she places her gift:
A bronze watch with an alabaster face.
Yet she only wants me to meet her agenda.

The fourth comes steadily, her eyes meeting mine,
Her robe of crimson velvet trailing roughly on the ground.
She throws her gift down at my feet:
A dagger, sharpened and bloodstained.
Yet another dagger rests in her other hand.

The fifth delays, then treads forward cautiously,
Underneath a cloak of heavy plum.
Quietly, she lays her gifts down in my hands:
First her wrists, then her fists, then open palms revealing a thin black chain.
Yet she seeks to be my captor, not captive.

The sixth glances first at the others, then walks to me,
Swaggering in a corset and a sash of myrtle lace.
She speaks, “I am yours,” and places her gift around my neck:
A locket of jade, her portrait within.
Yet she cares only about outshining the others.

The seventh, and most fair, stands where she is,
Draped in folds of silken silver and strapped in buckles of steel.
She takes my gift from her left hand and holds it in front of her:
A diamond ring.
Yet she isn’t playing a game.

My seven suitors lined in a row:
Loneliness,
Lust,
Impatience,
Rage,
Fear,
Jealousy
and Hate.

Each has courted me, each has wooed.
Each, for their efforts, at the end of their date, has won tight embraces and hushed words.
Yet only one suitor may win this game. Here is the game I play:
they seek my hand.

Beautiful, cold and cruel, Hate is my victor.
She does not care about attention,
Nor pleasure,
Nor time.
She is not stranger to reason,
Nor confidence.
She does not need to compete.

Unsheathing my sword, she receives her reward… my hand.
Though my hand grips the hilt, and her bosom greets the blade.