Her Arrival Awaits

The blood in her eye,
The swollen black bruise.
Abused, yes, and beaten maybe,
Lady! What's today's excuse?
Her charm is lost,
Yet she held her grace,
She was born a long time ago,
Yet her arrival awaits.

She's a daughter, a wife, mother of a five,

Relationships for which she had to strive.
So what if she pays with her body or her life,
With darkness in the heart she merely survives.
She wears her wounds with honour and poise,
He uses her and she bears it without noise,
She loves him dearly and her reflection she hates,
She's alive, yes! Yet her arrival awaits.

"You bloody whore!", he called her so,
How deep he could sink, low, so low.
He held her by her black curly hair,
Her body that night she was unwilling to share.
Her son, her sunshine, her breath, her life,
She's still a mother, and still a wife,
She gives up though, sooner or late,
She endures him silently, as her arrival awaits.

She is no one or many or maybe just one,
She lives and thrives or suffers and burns.
She is there on a lion with a trident in hand,
Or a slave of her man to follow his command.
That God we see, unclothed she stand,
Over the chest of her husband with a severed head in hand,
Her magnificence, her beauty, to her dominance we pray,
Then what about the women who are not made of clay?
We worship her and abuse her and love her back,
We judge her and shame her for something she lacked,
She stands there alone and so does our fate,
Humanity falls while her arrival awaits.