Mistress of Beads
She sits there in her golden gown
Weeping soft; without a sound
Body shaking, silent sobs;
Each rough hand has done its job.
Her skin is scratched her gown is torn;
Each dream she’ll wish she were not born.
Beads scattered, strewn across the floor;
Bare footed foes they’re waiting for
And they will prick who may come near
To their mistress and her dark fear,
And left unwanted in her seat
Their mistress tends her bleeding feet.
Copyright © Alice Woede | Year Posted 2012
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