
Amidst a spool of golden yarn, she weaves by day
Her threads take flight-
Across the span of seas, the spread of sky
And bound into his arms, not just in silent plea,
Streaked with a widow’s grief
But in desperate command
To return home.
…………….
Eyes gouging the length of the horizon,
She waits with bated breath
A widow’s hand in silent fight
Heaving the weight
Of her savage grief
Against the surge of rabid suitors
Who storm her halls with hollow feasts.
…………
Men have returned, and altars smoke with sacrifice
One dips his finger in wine, tracing Troy’s demise
Their families ring them in a warm glow
Lapping up their every word,
Hearts whole and surging
Yet her bed is cold.
…………
She clutches at her frayed loom
In fevered prayer
Her grief is a savage thing, ripping holes in her weave
And his trials pale in comparison.
She tugs at his absence, pondering to madness
Whether he’s lost to death or still living, loitering…
Worries it like an open wound,
Until sleep dulls her senses.
…………..
Troy has fallen for other women
But for her, war still rages on
As fresh and raw as a fever dream
Her vigil flickers, but she feeds it like sacrifice
Leans on his name like a prayer and holds her head, unyielding
And waits, heart braced, for sails to part the straits.
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