Queen of the Unhinged Clock

This poem explores a queen who refuses to be contained by tradition. Her creations are not just machines, but extensions of her will: elegant, terrifying, and completely hers.

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They whisper

that my crown was forged

from gear-teeth and regret,

my velvet stitched from mothwing

and battlefield smoke.

Let them whisper.

I am not their Queen.

I am their equation unresolved,

the blueprint they fear to unfold.

The throne does not cradle.

It crackles.

Metal and bone,

fused by my hand

and the hunger that rules it.

A coil of copper and wire,

a thing that bites when held too long,

like me.

I dream in schematics—

explosions drafted in silver ink,

and machines that purr

only when blood oils the gears.

My girls—

those creatures in couture—

they orbit like moons,

sharp-eyed, talon-hearted,

their smiles lacquered in venom

and pressed violets.

I made them too.

Battle is not necessity.

It is craving.

A kind of exquisite dissonance

I cannot unwind.

They come to kneel,

these enemies in velvet.

They offer treaties.

I give them clocks

that tick down

to silence.

And still,

they call me mad.

As if madness isn’t

just genius

uncompromised.

Let kings toast in gold halls.

Let merchants die fat and safe.

I will forge new limbs from ash,

new laws from broken cogs,

new mornings where we dine

on ruin and roses.

For I am Queen,

and I do not reign.

I ignite.