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The Song of the Silent Prophet
Women, as I’m sure
you know by now, are objects;
Objects to be bought
and traded, pawed at and paraded,
Loaned and hired and
at their most ideal, objects of desire.
Women have no voice –
why would they need one?
They only need to
stay where they’re put and when they’re called, to come.
One such object, a
princess of Troy was put in a temple as decoration,
An ornament for
mighty Apollo’s sordid delectation.
The petulant god
wanted more than just to see her
He needed to own her
– it was his right he was owed this prize
She got no say – why
would she want one?
She should be
honoured to have been chosen.
When she said yes, as
doubtless she would,
He’d gift her with
unseen sight -
A prize he knew she’d
like.
Gods have very good taste.
But in his haste he
failed to see
That his charms were not
as sweet as he believed
And she said no.
To a god.
To a man.
And in his pique he
sought to wreak
A terrible curse to
bind her to tragedy
To put her in her
place.
He took the gift and
twisted it, made it grotesque;
Prophetic joys still
filled her mind
But in place of
hope-filled ecstasies
Her mind recoiled
from haunting shades
There was no respite
– why should she get one?
She tried to warn her
kith and kin of all the nightmares she had seen
But they mocked her
and ignored her and said her daydreams bored them.
Apollo in his gleeful
spite had hid her truth from others’ sight
Until her own doom
loomed before her
Not one man would
heed her warnings.
He needn’t have
bothered;
What sane man would
have listened to her?
To a woman?
To a slave?
To an object?
One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward
