Helen of Troy vs. Society

the land fades to pure bloodstone
the color of the War that is forgot
and yet all around, suffocating in its vivacious vise grip
and only such that the incisive can foresee
in the shortness of a woman's skirt or the scarf of the metrosexual malady
or the judgment that we carry with us like little knapsacks
our indoctrination falling out like christmas ornaments
scattered and shattered and battered amidst the garnet sidewalk

Around the city newscasters whisper, was she violated because of herself
and the world taunts with such dark, antagonistic words as, she deserved it all, this kingdom of hurt
those clothes smell of urine and fault and-
and better yet, injustice
societal violence, the body is most certainly a terrible, deviant machination
and isn't that just oppressive, the choking funeral pall?

Bequeath to this unfair world a body from the edge of the St. Peter Gate
and when she dies we will all fall to our knees and scream,
my oh my she was so beautiful, so lovely so gracious
oh my what have we so done
And we will trample your grave with the too-late apologies