Fragile. Naive. Petite. Shy.
Quiet. Smart. Dilligent. Feminine. A Woman.
Words written in steam on a reflective glass,
Impressions emblazened in the mind of a passerby who saw me last,
Molded to fit a gender, a class.
Guess I’m not a person but a personification of womanhood.
Gender is to person as fire is to flame,
I am only a shell apart from my gender and my name,
Thought of only a product of the culture that became
The only revered source of truth and good.
A girl who cannot be bound,
Must sleep nightly to the sound,
Of flaming droplets streaming down
A frigid face of cherrywood.
Dead and hollow like a bronze drum,
She lives, breathes, grows by the woman’s rule of thumb,
To never show any sign or moticum,
Of masculine virtues, never questioned but understood.
Now the repressed flame will not hold still,
The wolves bay at their expectant kill,
The delicate rose now exherts her forceful will,
To be an image of personhood.
The silvery nightingale brought forth by the renaissance,
The irridescent glow of a coming dawn,
The balances of Libra we rely upon,
Demand justice for all who have been trodden underfoot.
The mystic symbol of yin and yang,
The skin and bones manifest by birth’s first pangs,
The lady for whom the bells of liberty proudly rang,
Are metaphors, yea, symbols of a balanced personhood.
