Golden Hair

I, Helen of Troy

Those halcyon days are now a faraway dream, 

Why do they make such promises

That are hard to believe in, harder to keep,

Sniffing, hunting down the happiness within, trapping it in their cold, icy fingers?

No! I do not say they burst them, those blissful bubbles which erupt anyhow, festering with intangible excitement,

They lend ears to the whispers lurking in the dark grooves... whispers that unfold fears, hopes, dissatisfied desires.

I had loved to revel in my beauty, the madness that drew many, destroyed many, annihilated me,

Youth, scornful, diffident, lent skill to my limbs, my self, the self no one could, would fathom.

They had fought, he had won me, they would battle again, and again, while I tripped and lost myself in the abyss of my own tears.

His golden youth, Her merciless love, some long forgotten wishes, granted, unfulfilled, etched in the immortal minds 

And here I stand, hatred reincarnated. Yes, it is I, who had loved once, a mere human immortalized by the blunder of her inexperienced fancies.

A stormy decade, an expectant womb, weeping, craving for a joy my love alone couldn't grant, his was the swelling desire, I broke.

They will sing of the heaps of gold, the banner of victory, the tide that swelled and swallowed all. 

I, the destroyer of homes, lives, families, marriages shall stoop under the weight, pride, ego never paid the price

They will sing of fearsome beauty, the flowing golden hair. They will not remember the dark clouds my unruly stresses brought, nor the cold rain that followed, all within.

"You foolish girl! You loved? You thought you had a choice? Knew you not that you were just a prize, lost, fought over, regained? No one wants to see your despicable self! A dowry! Who are you without them who possess you? A temptress? A witch? A carcass?"

They never let me grow, distorted maturity overwhelmed my senses and I, blind, saw as an encumbrance, that which was wisdom.

I trudge ahead in my soulless body, in my pure, white, glowing robe, my limbs weary, dripping self pity, resignation...

Once weaved in the self centered 'I', my vision bound, all I want today is his death, an end.

I long for what I had left behind, lost,

Burdened by my oversight, I can never chase butterflies under the sun again, carefree, impeccable.

They won't grant me an easy end. Do I deserve it? My follies will simply cut my heart into innumerable slices,

And I'll stand by the Scaean, a spectator, between the two I thought I had loved, on no man's land, a no-man's woman.