English: Henry VIII and his second wife, Anne Boleyn. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My lady our love is now
The blackest rose
And wherefore now these tidings
Do I suppose
Arose from bloodied rituals
The ones I chose?
Where once my love for you
A flame, a joy apart
A treasure of great promise
To my weary heart
Now sympathy turns treachery
And must depart
You promised me a son and promised
Love so true
Your mystery and charms beguiled
And lured me through
Yet failing in your vows must mean
The end of you
My lady once I drank upon
Your wit and charm
I raised you from obscurity
To be upon my arm
But history may yet reveal
I did you harm
Your neck is tiny as you say
The blade is keen
The drums will play their sombre beat
As go-betweens
But dare I linger here to see
This fallen queen?
My lady our love is now
The blackest rose
My sonnet pales to nothing
And bereft this prose
I have no store of sympathy
My heart is closed
(c) Helen Valentina 2013, All Rights Reserved
helenvalentina 
Beautifully tragic
Thank you, yes, the story of Anne Boleyn is one that haunts me for some reason. 🙂
wow just wow, i have been clinging to the idea i could express this masterpiece of their story in my own poetric verse since season 2 o the tudors. I feel you have done it enough justice for us both. BRAVO!!!
Thank you so much, that means a lot!! 🙂 🙂
you’e totally welcome.
Pingback: Henry’s Holy Grail | whatamitodo