Voiceless

Her anxious stutter peppered her voice.

All the scars and cuts she had taken,

all because there were parts of her

that were deemed wrong - unfit

to serve the ideal of a woman's body -

Like Helen of Troy, her beauty was her curse.

 

And so she went forth with that curse

even when she was a shaken voice.

Her words were a body

of an ocean that had taken

its travelers on a course unfit

for man - but not for her.

 

Because it was always her,

who longed for an end and cursed

the sky whose setting sun was unfit

for the world in which her voice

had been all but taken,

and where she knew nobody.

 

And if there was anybody

who could have seen her

when she had spoken, - no - taken

those vile words that made a curse

of her one true gift… her voice.

Even when she knew… it was unfit

 

Like a solider unfit

for the war where body

counts were endless, voiceless,

needless to say it was her,

whose actions turned a curse -

Into a road less taken.

 

When all we've taken

shows us unfit

to fix the curse

we placed on their bodies,

it was her, and only her

Voice -

 

that lifted the curse, the body, the mind unfit.

For her own were vows taken in an oath without a voice.