A poem about Marie Antoinette’s feeling. It’s not perfect and I’m not satisfy, but I still decided to post it here for some reasons.
How could I find you
beta reader: Ying
How could I find you;
the one will leave a response when I call
the one will give a hand when I fall
the one will wake me up from power, luxury and sumptuous balls?
When I stand alone in the deluxe hall
when everybody gives me a blackball
when I am attacked by tongues dipped in gall
how could I find you among them all?