The shafts of light from sun above,
     that run the gauntlet through.
Illuminate the molten flames,
     a lava flow in view.
As breeze disturbs and bullets pelt,
     the motion, slow to ebb,
Particles are tossed in air,
     then caught in spider's web.

I sense the morning early,
     the dew wet underfoot.
But as I run no thought is lost,
     on where my feet to put.
The rifles rattle, punching air,
     their tiny shuttles fly,
And echo off the many trunks,
     false numbers magnify.

And in this place, a clarity,
     my thoughts do coalesce,
Making my emotions quell,
     and bringing form to mess.
I can't explain her drawing me,
     why in her orbit I am caught.
But know the answers she will grant,
     are the ones I've always sought.

"Here" she says. I'm out of breath,
     the air feels almost thin.
As beads of sweat, cascade and run,
     moisturising skin.
With back of hand I wipe aside,
     my tepid perspiration,
And looking on I see our steed,
     escape of altercation.

A ship of sorts, it flies perhaps?
     And hails from sky I'm sure.
I've never seen a vehicle,
     with curves like this before.
We round the stern, with quadrant seal.
     that glints the sunlight true.
Emblazoned on the bonnet,
     makers mark of white and blue.

Nimbly now, she works her ways,
     unlocks and opens doors.
The tension mounting palpable,
     as machine's combustion roars.
I stand aghast, I gulp in shock,
     the roar becomes a purr.
And wince as yet more wood explodes,
     from shady Douglas fir.

She yells at me, I climb inside,
     and quickly door I shut.
The cagèd cat leaps forth with screams,
     an overpowered strut.
I hear the wheels rotate fast,
     and absent grip now yields.
Airborne girt and gaudy tracks,
     pervading grassy fields.

I hear the shots, though distant now,
     chanting words of hate.
Ahead the patchy earth explodes,
     where bullets congregate.
The peppering decreases,
     the quiet thuds die down.
Yolanda's tense expression,
     has waned from frantic frown.

Through fields green, the black cat races,
     hunting for the road.
But once discovered, years neglect,
     leaves tarmac cracked and bowed.
Onward now unto the sun,
     we charter our advance.
And with that girl with onyx hair.
     I take a second chance.

I realise now there must be more.
     her motives I should hear.
That fateful night, with Bertholdt,
     and the female mutineer.
What happened after I collapsed?
     What have I left to learn.?
And why in face of certain death,
     did she feel she should return.

"Me" I hear, "Me" again,
     she risked her life and limb.
"The Relic" bounces in my mind,
     my ugly pseudonym.
As tensions fall, I watch her eyes,
     from road they never leave.
And courage overtakes me,
     raw emotions interleave.

"So tell me then" I start to speak,
     assertive "Tell me why?"
"Seeing is believing",
     all she offers as reply.
"You think I cannot understand?
     You think I lack..." she sighs.
"I know that you will ask for proof"
     A fact I recognise.

She knows me well. I hadn't guessed,
     her reading quite so good.
But now I see perception,
     is a skill she's understood.
A change of tact, a change of pace,
     I offer to the Queen.
And ask a dangerous question,
     placing head on guillotine.

"Your Highness?" I question,
     with a sharp sarcastic lilt.
At once I feel so dirty,
     and overcome with guilt.
She answers quick, retaining gaze,
     though road ahead still straight.
"Don't even start" her words are cold,
     removed and desolate.

The minutes pass in silence,
     I see her limbs relax.
The two Yolandas sitting there,
     from cast of parallax.
I remember well, those passèd times,
     we spent in conversation.
Never feeling out of place,
     nor hearing condemnation.

Though things are not quite what they seem,
     I rate her raw intentions.
She's kept me safe, alive at least,
     by use of her inventions.
Then wondering, my tiny mind.
     to stray from sanity.
The images begin to form,
     of absent family.

The salty ants return again,
     and march on way to ark.
Two by two, o'er hilly cheek.
     they each now disembark.
Alisha, Mother, Father too,
     such real disconnect.
My absent recollections cause to
     stifle, stunt, deflect.

And now their memories defiled,
     I sit beside their foe,
I chose survival's solid ground,
     with guilt I overflow.
I open mouth then close again,
     I fear her chilled retort.
A beast with strength to crush a soul,
     not one I dare to court.

Away I turn, to window face,
     and see the world slip by.
Through tearful eyes the colours run,
     and structures mystify.
Sorrow's wine, a bitter taste,
     collects on leather black.
And pools the pain of grieving rain,
     emotions almanac.

The stitches swell and change their hue,
     on drinking from the lake.
Where agony, regret and shame,
     take form from my mistake.
My finger rests stop the dome,
     of saline waters gathered.
And pressing down with little force,
     the area now slathered.

"My Father was a King of sorts,
     they say that makes me Queen."
The questions start to form, but no!
     I must not intervene.
"I'm sorry that I hid it."
     I see her furrowed brow.
as if her face expressed distaste,
     with need to disavow.

"I understand" replies my heart,
     my mind concedes control.
Compassion overwhelms me,
     as I feel it tug my soul.
A year or more since last we spoke,
     yet even though it seems,
We share that same connection,
     that survives this world's extremes.

Tenuous and fraught at times,
     close and warm another.
She interrupts my train of thought,
     "You know I had a brother?"
"I did not." She smiles, "How could you?
     I never said a word."
Her voice still soft as always,
     like the songs of springtime bird.

"He died" she says, and bites her lip,
     The anguish picture paints.
Her lips curtailed to move no more,
     held back by pearl restraints.
A single tear leaves its home,
     and solely on its path.
No company, no looking back,
     to see the aftermath.

But then again I see her pause,
     emotions put on hold.
A face of stoic solitude,
     her manners so controlled.
As if her very presence,
     retreats to haven deeper,
Avoiding confrontation with,
     Composure's ugly reaper.

The pretty profile on display,
     a picture in the lot.
My heart would bid on frantically,
     accused of ripe besot.
Yet nothing I could give,
     would ever pay the price.
Or worthy be of royalty,
     that doth my soul entice.

I surely can't explain it,
     that feeling here once more.
A spell she's cast? A witch perhaps?
     That moors my ship to shore.
Her beaches call me swiftly,
     yet know her well? Not I.
But deeply drawn I find myself,
     not matter what I try.

I watch her for a minute more,
     concerned to see her break,
The dams can only hold so much,
     the push of pressured lake.
Composed she stays and starts a tale,
     of places that she's been.
The origin of pseudonym,
     The cursèd Pharma Queen.