Phool

 

Each day she sings metanoia,

so her yesterdays don't count.

She will not be chained for her ill deeds

because she knows better....now.

She drinks the blood of her offspring

and bore the babe of a hangman

whose name was called by the crier

as noble.

But those who know him true will tell you whose pockets he pict

and all of the wives whose skirts he slithered up

when their husbands were away at war.

She knows five words in every language

and goes to church on Friday though she just...can't... decide if she believes.

But the evangelists give portions for every time she listens to their sermon

and her stores are pact full of the first fruits of hopeful preachers wishing to win her sorry soul.

She made a mother of her daughters and a smattering of her man sons.

Believing in forgiveness, she has never repented.

She swears that life is beautiful but has never worked a day.

She believes she is shrouded but today Themis has brought her scales.

Kali has come for her neck, her tired withered neck.

Nemesis will slice her at the falsehood and show everyone the shame of her liars skin,

And the Erinyes will pull the meat from her carcass while she screams for what she has left undone.

This woman is no innocent, and she is certainly no flower.

She has given herself over to all and so, at her request, to all she will owe answer.