Sorry Queen

Run deep, ravines
of crippling blood-red tears
down cheeks so mercilessly sagging,
aged and sorry beyond their years.

Gnarled hair frames
a face so young
yet battered, beaten, bruised and born
into a world too uninviting.

And yet hope,
alive and burning bright,
dwells in the eyes that adorn this face
like jewels in a crown of human glory.

Aye, she is Queen of All.
The land surveyed in minds so frayed
and sorrow paths tread.
She owns them all.

And while I am disease,
she is immune to ire, sorrow, blight and scorrn.
Of such purity was she born
that I merely bow before her.

Oh that She, So troubled Queen
could, through her own eyes be seen
as the wonder I see before myself.
I give her all my faith.