Penelope’s Vigil

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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