I will not be hung by the noose in the f of what if
Nor guillotined by guest evils in my head.
I will not crown this despot of doubt;
My brain is not his orb to hold, my sanity not his sceptre to wield.
I will not weave him tapestries with the victories he has won
Nor paint his portrait with brushes of my hair.
I will stud his robe with sparkling hopes
Mined from the mind,
Line it with fears
Of the hunt.
Chandeliers of tears will not grace his halls,
Suffering will not be sovereign.
I will wear a crown set with the sunlight of lost days,
A robe adorned with the dawn of the lost morn.
My brain is my orb to hold, my sanity my sceptre to wield.
I will weave tapestries with the victories I have won
And paint my portrait with his bristling anger.
By Sarah Mills