Worshipping the wrong gods,
Not the state sanctioned,
Approved,
Male, powerful
Gods.
We are taught, no,
Brainwashed to worship at their altar, kneel on glass and bear the curse with no complaints.
Worship. (A lie, a fabrication, a tool to snuff you out like a candle at night)
So,
I bring you,
Votives,
Gifts,
Offerings,
even,
Sacrifices,
I carry them,
Sobbing,
Crumpling under the weight, Of
All we are required to carry.
Blood and death,
Sacrilegious acts,
(they make me feel dirty, my skin crawls, and the feeling of lead never leaves my bones no matter who tries to gently melt it from my interior)
and still,
I am shunned.
You say it is a kindness.
It is for the Gods.
To change, fortune.
The winds.
I realise too late,
Who the sacrifice truly is,
Until they obscure my vision and bind my wrists,
I scream,
No one cares.
I was always here,
On this shore,
With my life in my father’s hands,
As he lifts the knife to my neck, and the men watch,
No emotion on their villainous faces.
Then, they sail away across the calm seas,
as rosy-fingered dawn begins her crawl across the sky.
It casts early morning, dappled & shimmering,
sunlight,
retracting off the glass-smooth surface of the sea,
casting rainbow shadows on the blood, my life, leaving me.
from somewhere far away,
I hear my mother scream.
it is guttural, harrowing, animalistic,
the earth seems to vibrate with the ferocity of her grief.
even my lifeless, betrayed body,
alone on the shore, shivers.
Fresco (wall painting) of Iphigenia’s death, can be seen at Pompeii Ruins.
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