The Noble Girl

 

I can not conceive of the endless piles 

  Riga-mortis set into the soul. 

 Deafening, oblique melancholy, 

    A weight which anchors 

       While a panic trembles- 

            Anxiety's crutch, 

The breath which currents in me shaking hands. 

            Stamina in defeat. 

Choices weigh up in unviable options. 

And my world has already caved in upon me. 

Dwelt then, I have surrendered, aimless; 

  The path of my totality, 

 an open and drifting sea. 

Completely at the mercy of my Creator- 

  Doesn't matter how good any deed...

          as I am not some. 

Comfort will not be given, 

  By some one miracle or testament of faith. 

I do not get a sweet tale to tell, 

  One short epic, and any happy ending to follow. 

  That will not be mine. 

       Mine is another. 

Mine is the story of no miracle given 

  Worth while. 

A piece of property worked to the bone- 

  No salvation in this life; 

       Not for me. 

  By no fault anymore than our race to our slaver

  It would not be 

A story of saving grace. 

If I didn't know any better; the feeling is akin to 

  God's abandonment. 

Sacrifice and duty, for only the cost of one soul- 

  "My Child". 

A venom taking over my body, 

  mascarading as death. 

 In paralysis, some haulted stench of dismay and uncertainty- 

  A defication smothering the last semblance of light. 

  A surrender, then 

   To my enemies. 

  My life given over to them. 

     Made irrelevant. 

To enslave, 

  The noble girl. 

 But not before she had a chance to taste her fate, in Divinity's hands, 

  and granted, anointed

       She was. 

Years stripped away dreams. 

  No love, in the castle cast upon her. 

  She was whittled down 

 not even good in a forced life of servitude

For her captures sneered only of envy; 

Soley was their enthusiasm, 

  To snuff out any confidence 

     She kept for herself, 

      as if still somehow, 

       An ultimate threat. 

      

Her days, mine- 

  Grew timeless. Haunted. Restless. 

No savior. 

  Only piles now. 

 Only the occupancy of her soul 

   To another. 

And without her Light 

All stamina she had, carried no force. 

  She was whittled now. 

 Down to shaking bones, and quietude's. 

A shell of subservience, 

 Because in this world, 

    She mattered not. 

Here then, I take only what is given, 

 No token to my blood or name. 

    An orphan now. 

  A stripped and nameless servant 

  That my enemies parade.