a poem by Lysa Deuna

She flies naked in the wilderness of this
Jungle made of concrete and steel,
Bearing her name inked on flesh atop burnt scars
Left by whom dared mark her a scarlet letter,
Yet never understood the heavy load she
Rests upon her shoulders.
Perhaps it was her genesis which birthed
A string of unfortunate tales that lead her here;
Of ruthless hands which seared her skin,
Of heartless men which left her a mess.
If only they listened to the broken chords
This nightingale sang through the twilight;
She never wished to be a temptress,
For the notes she breathed out were
Not meant to seduce but solely to cry out
Battles of life she fervently fights to survive.

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