Warning: The following prose may be disturbing to some.
It is not intended to be autobiographical.
I must admit to being a bit perplexed.
How it came to be is really quite odd.
This poem just sort of "wrote itself" the other day
after I finished with my meditation and prayers.
I guess it's a story, a voice, that needed to be heard.
Wary is the Winsome one
for Wronged by Wicked deeds he's done.
The Wounds she bears are hidden deep
Within her soul Where secrets keep.
He Wields his power, Wrenching her Wrist.
She Writhes beneath his clenching fist.
He Whispers, he Wheedles With Whiskey breath.
Weeping and Weary she Wishes for death.
Hopes Wither, as she Wails With Woe.
After the Wrath there's no place to go.
For trapped in this Wretched World is she.
It's her Word against his...and she's only three.