Gaia's Ghost

Round and round the blindfold of shame.
My sister's eyes from truth refrain.
Secrets spill from ruptured rims,
The lost echoes of voices dimmed.
Bruised by explanation.
Ingrained with each generation.
The cyclical sickness of domination.
But secrets spill like mother's milk,
The stained beauty of ruined silk.
And ignorance buys my sister's chains.
Furiously wringing out last night's stains.
Her hushed words beaten by the day.
The blindfold tighter round what she'd say.
So she bled the unsaid in silent seclusion,
dumb-founded and shrouded by dizzying delusion.
The evidence insufficient for my sister's grieving.
And she buries the thought of someday leaving.
She is here,
but uninhabited.
A skeletal blueprint, barely breathing.
But softly, slowly, from the ash of the unheard,
Gaia's ghost rises like a firebird.
"Here I am," her voice now loud,
incinerating to pieces the silent shroud.
"Here I am; now look at me!

Unblinded, babe to liberty."

( A dedication to the many mute victims of domestic violence and abuse)

By Stella Renee Morrow