She grips with broken lips
In the full glare of blackened eyes
Clumsy gait of sheltered pain
Celebrated as amazing grace
She is Oya deep beneath
For the sake of little ones bears
Furtive glances of kinsmen
Whispered songs of hateful friends
Scuttlebut sold cheaply in the market square
Down the connubial vale he shepherds her
Where villainous whips
Curl like mascara starched lashes
Foundation deep in age-long tales
Of heroines like thralls enrobed
Honoring streams that flow in the dark
Tears drunk in a goblet of gavage
For a prize precious as dust
Oya took it all in stride
Not anymore!
She grips, today, with the shield of her mind
Deep as the ditch
Waiting for that goon who dare.
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