Her

He tied her to the tree of fear,
a tree to him that was so dear,
so dear he couldn’t feel the rain;
a man who preferred death to pain.

His wife was just a piece of work,
no holy duties did she shirk;
no stone unturned for god on high,
a god that drowned her child’s own cry.

They are beyond the reach of life,
it’s time for her to quit the strife –
they will not change or let her be;
if they knew how, they’d set her free.

Now where does she go, what does she do?
Should she intellectualize it too
like her father, like his wife?
Or, will she give herself a life?

Her eyes say she is not done yet,
she endeavors daily to forget
the ways that shut out all the rain;
she wants no more to avoid pain.

© 2013 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

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