Another poem, this time written in a raging storm of spite and anger at men and what society has made women into.
She is beauty,
She is grace.
Yet if she speaks out of place,
She is a sententious, smashmouth, silly schoolgirl.
***
She is elegance
and taste.
Yet if she is no longer innocent and chaste,
She is a worthless, wretched, withered whore.
***
Ideas and desire are poison in the
delicate, dainty fingers of hers.
They quiver in her feminine aura
as we are overpopulated in masculinity,
that terror is invoked by any reminiscence she brings forth.
***
She is the unknown,
the mystified,
the oppressed.
The corpse buried in the earth with the hope of keeping her at bay,
forgotten.
***
She leans down to pick a flower,
and it is demonised as a weapon.
She gathers her skirts in an endeavour to dance,
and derided is she.
She indulges in the frivolities of life,
and is nothing but vain.
***
Her power had to be diminished
Degraded to a four-legged canine.
A dog, a bitch.
Yet it is not a degradation,
for it unites her with Artemis’ power.
Both the leaders,
both the pack.
United as a force of liberty, vigour, impetuosity, spirit, and beauty,
unapologetically.
***
They made her into their tempests,
the storms,
of their own creation.
Havoc wreakers.
Destructors,
destruction.
Mercurial, arbitrary, volatile.
The ship-sinkers,
the veil-piercers,
the bloodthirsty,
the wicked.
***
Let her hone her waters to nourish her soil,
let her sprout, grow, and blossom
into a beautifully fierce gladiolus.
***
She’s their monster.
A monstrous monstrosity.
A monstrosity of atrocities.
So hate her,
Fear her.
***
Regret will find its way to you
as you stand in her smouldering shadow.
