A form without a face
A name without a story
Her formless body, holds all the blood that has ever flowed off a woman,
For she is all women, and each one at the same time. She is you and she is me.
Born off a man's mind
In a city hidden in the mountains far, far away
Of silent films and lucid dreams.
She holds the heaving of the oceans in the rise of her breast, the promise of stars far away.
The beauty of Medusa in her eyes, Nefertiti's pride in curve her neck.
The love of Ishtar in the meeting of her thighs.
For she was the Eve that had fallen from the skies.
The Delilah who'd cheated love, and Boudicca who'd fought for her kin.
She was Guinevere, who'd betrayed her husband, her beauty and debauchery cried far and wide.
She was the Virgin, married to her country, and the sinner of the red, red gown, who'd proudly laid down her head
At the guillotine.
She was the Angel of the home, and she was the daughter, the brave Constance,
Who'd proudly carved a V into the flesh of her breast.
The V for The Vote.
She has burned, in mad fits of rage.
And she's loved. And cried, and laughed, at the stake.
For she was the stain of red in a sea of white
The virtuous and the fallen.
The mother and the prostitute.
She who knows the mysteries of silence.
She smiles, and like the dew of a new day's sigh, like magic, the one word falls from her lips.
And chaos reigns.