Queen Elizabeth II has died and she isn't the Queen anymore.
Her husband, "Philip Mountbatten" died just one year before.
Elizabeth II has died at the age of 96 and it will change things.
Her eldest son, Charles, former Prince of Wales is now the King.
She was the longest serving Queen, she served for 70 years.
She became Queen in 1952 and for decades, she was revered.
She celebrated her Silver, Golden, Diamond and Platinum Jubilees.
She asked people to "never give up, never despair" about Covid 19 which is a horrible disease.
She was Royalty and had wealth, power and fame.
Now that she's dead, England won't be the same.

I look into her face, curiously more familiar, more frequent now on her departure. And particularly more prominent in profile.  
I look into her face and see the easy smile that comes with age and with the assurance of knowing herself and her place in the bigger scheme of things, particularly in the scheme of relatively earthly royalty and the ultimately heavenly King.
I look into her face and recall it in prayer at her husband's funeral, and imagine it now at rest, in darkness and in joy, in a brighter light.
I look into her face, on my pound coin, in the corner of my letter, on the street bill board, on the front of the paper, on every channel, an image etched in my mind's eye, a loud echo of a lifetime of consistency and service.  
I look and then in a prayer thank her God and my God for gifting us this servant queen, who lived well and only fell once she had done enough to help ensure others' lives were better for her being there.
And I pray for our king, that his long apprentiship in her firm serves him well and serves us well as we walk on together, into the unknown, in thanks for the service of leaders.

The Queen has passed away
No longer will she reign
Just another day but,
It will never be the same

The world without a queen
Thoughts shift as we all take stock
Everywhere she’s been
Solid, like a rock

Mayhap a relic of the past
Promoting privilege and class
But the dye was cast, for her
In slippers made of glass

She was the rhythm of our days
The anchor of our nights
Now we stand here in a haze
Bow our heads and dim the lights

We say good night and thanks, to
The bearer of the crown
The face upon our stamps
And we watch the sun go down.

For sow the wiz
and for that the bliss
Flee through the apple tree
It is harvest times
Now jam and sweet like pie
Oh the bliss of a midnight sky

We plied and plowed
and for that the bliss
Fill up a room, no one to miss
It is now harvest times
Us to remember the Queen of ages
Don't forget to pay the wages
Oh the bliss of lovers gazes

Further down the deep deep blue
Of ocean wonders, to remind of all the ships that went through
Rough patches of ill willed weather and stormy faiths
I hope we all remember that it is to Christ we stand our faith

Oh the bliss of Life
Oh the bliss of Faith

Oh the bliss of Summers mother leaving heaps of Love on the stairs
For those who not have the bliss of being sometimes missed
By someone who actually cares
even just a little bear
lonely in the woods a quiet autumn afternoon
Not knowing when winter starts or when to say hello to the moon

Who to say good night, good morning or good bye
When you are a lonely cub in the woods and your mama was a wish on a star.

Then the arch painter,
up in the blue yonder,
stirs the sea of colours,
and posing in style,
infuses the magic with
tangerine daylight.

Then I don't know
if you were walking
by a brook or a river,
you would tune in,
perhaps like the sweet singer,
Hebrew King David,
the water nymph hums a melody.

Then the narrative resonates,
it never just goes away like the wind.
Birds chirp and sing
in the groves and on every street.

Then I was watching the BBC
on a black and white screen,
the beloved monarch had passed away,
and Britain was mourning.

Then she appeared
once in a stolen exhibition
by my poetry in motion
and jolly happy she was admiring
now she's gone I just dreamed.

Then amidst the melancholy,
I heard twittering birds chirping,
missing the mellifluous melodies,
so awesomely sweet,
alas, Queen Elizabeth wasn't there
to speak her English!

The taste of repetition tickles at historical ignorance. The Queen is dead, the Queen, the Queen! Centuries of colonial empiricism brought into the dark corners of the metaverse once again. Heaven is empty. Hell has no vacancy. So why do tyrants swim so well. Why do they sit in their golden, guilted chairs, grinning through their teeth with smug acceptance of their blessings from god? Is the sun still there? Does the ocean still spray waves of destiny? Are the creatures of marginalized society so cruel that they would oppress and condemn as they feel they have been? Was there no lesson? Does man not have its place is history or is the last 100 years enough to **** the need? I hear the mosquitoes buzzing and zooming past my ears. So I gave my blood with reluctant pleasure. This is my new role.

Crack some fire
everywhere
on the way heaven.
Light the shadow
light a candle
down the moon.

The sun in fact
does it every day.
Scurries towards
the last dark room
down the moon.

With the colour plate
intact and full
passes by shining on
every corner and nook
every untouched end in the day
the rainbows peep on the way.

Sneaks its way through
the deep forests of orbs
up and down the passages
in the mountains of stars
even after nightingales
and robins go deep silent
the sun tiptoes on the go
lights a candle on the moon.

Moments after the sunset
facing its true north in the West
only to find in heaven
the way The Queen of Heaven
puts her footprint less step
it's the sun's true West
shows up the new crescent.