She Writes
In a dark room she writes Obsessively , Incessantly , Scrawling words until they weave together , a cobweb of tangled truths and lore , Inky tentacles reaching from her mind to the paper .
She wields her dagger pen , armed with words Painting a picture of power and passion Immortalising her subjects in verse Sempiternal in paragraphs She writes .
But not of Achilles ’ swift feet or unmatched agility His golden skin or singing limbs , Not of Hercules Lion fur draped across his back A golden apple in his hand .
She does not write of Zeus , His leathery fingers of lighting Cracking open the sky , Nor of vain Narcissus Forever trapped in the saline silence .
No , she writes not of the trials of these men , Obsessed with honour and strength Trapped by hubris and power They are their own undoing Enough of them .
Instead she sings of Helen , Wind in her hair and war on her heels Golden sun splashed across her face and running through her veins
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