Victrix - Poem by Margaret Wilde

Victrix

Triumphant, she exulted.

Another night throttled.
Dead at her feet.

She set herself
to attack the dawn.

Her hair, falling out,
screamed as it fell.

Seeing its distress,
she wept.

“My poor, suffering child!”
(she to each strand).
“How I have loved you!”

She stroked her skin,
dry and broken.

It turned on her,
scratching fiercely.

With perfumed oils
she smoothed it,
soothed it.

But it craved real food.

“Would I could feed you banquets,”
she said,
“but eat we may not.”

As she rose, so she fell.

At her bidding,
bruised, bleeding,
her body crawled,

Painfully, doggedly,
into another day.

Margaret Wilde © 2012