Hey, can I ask you sister
Would he ‘ave thought she was to blame
Would he ‘ave thought it was her fault
Would he ‘ave taken her flower—I ask you, gentle grower—
if it had been his mother, his sister,
I ask you, when she suffered,
when for him—and them—it was quickly over, fun and laughter,
when the shock for her was growing colder, mudder
And the dress she’d worn
had not been for them—
the flower-body, the bird, the air, the ocean
the flow-er body of her poem
yet she’d put it out there—
yet it’s blossom had been stolen—
Did it matter?
Did it matter to anyone but her?
Later, when her feelings were nearly over—
sending waves to white cliffs, to —
she didn’t want more suffer-ring.
Silence in a place of earth
Where she daren’t hope blooms
would grow again.
But they did, as they always do—
they did when the games and the gamers—
and the cheering jeering audience—were gone trope.
And she deemed her dress had been okay,
that loving-kindness would’ve respected her
anyway, and had—
regardless of whatever her poem had been wearing or
not wearing, that any sinner deemed bad.
Should she cover? Cover oceans in a black shroud
Should she be dark ghost in a land where skin is loud
Should she never walk on land—
Should she never swim near-nude in nature
nor “get out of hand”—
should she? *When they can?* I ask you,
gods almighty, if it were their
sister, their wife, their mother, their daughter,
would they think so? Would he? Would she?
If so, I feel a great sorrow,
sorrow swelling up
in me. It
tears through her—
the truth is,
the truth is
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