The Lass
Poem #38 from the Poetry Portal
View the commorancy on the hill, claustrophobically genetic. Kins’ quandary: repressive wardship. The lass jilted from her ivory tower — lost her power. ‘The simulacrum of the ‘House of Darkness’. Daily diet: kins leftovers followed by: bloodletting, beatings, psycho-tortures, mind control. Her new name: IS — for indentured servant. Their vassals: four nasty pit bulls aimed to silence her. Her despondency equals an unwavering scheme for freedom. Her silence may be a form of revenge, or is it? To stay alive and escape — a palpable sense of poetic justice to her.
This is the Lass in her soliloquy: “I’m over the moon, all are leaving soon: a week's vacation.
I wish they take their vassals with them. Thank goodness they didn’t invite me to join them. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll all perish along the way. Please forgive me: I retract that. I just wish they all leave me alone. (She ponders about the dogs) How can I get rid of Sassy and company? Maybe. Some other ways are possible.”
The psyche in distress At last, she channeled herself to cross The bridge of the unknown. The tenacity to defy the odds Reverberated… within. After her third attempt, She roved dazed and confused. Bewildered by the life outside the fence. Scared shit at the same time What’s the next challenging path ahead?
In her wanderings She stumbled upon a rock The body of which, satiated with thickening moss. Lazily. She sat on its smooth-shiny top. Predicting: many must have sat there before her. The alluring lake next to it - Jested her in astonishment. Looking up. She scanned. The panorama: a beguiling lake. In the far distance — a white image seemingly floating.
Something flapped above her. A white heron… Flew off higher toward the sky — in front of her. Glancing down: a streak of fog lightly veiled the cold crystalline water. The heron summersaulted down Dipped its wings in the lucid flow of the water Splattering droplets. As it came back up: A fish in its mouth Dangling its tail, shaking rigorously. A futile attempt to free itself: Sealed its fate.
Witnessing. Such dramatic scene Triggered her insurmountable pain Unsure of her life ahead Closed her eyes — moment of silence. Soon she opened her eyes. Stared out of the horizon. The lake calmed; the heron gone. Slowly stood up. The lass On the road again. It’s now mid-day on a sunny Sunday In Everlane.
Further up the road, she hitchhiked. A couple from ‘Baby Boomers’ era stopped their car. “Where to?” the driver asked. “Manhattan.” “Get in, not too far from us, we’ll take you there.” She got in, relieved. “Where in Manhattan?” Quick recollection: godmother lived on 72nd. “72nd Street.” “We live on Grand Concourse, in the Bronx. This is my wife, Cindy, and I’m Norman.” The car stopped on 72nd and Broadway. The lass got off the car not knowing where to go. Suddenly, Norman shouted: “I didn’t get your name. My wife insisted on asking you.” In tears, she shouted back, “Chelsea. My name is Chelsea.” “Do you know where you’re going?” “Not really.” “You know, it’s dark now. It’s not safe to be walking alone.”
“Come back in the car — We’ll help you look for your loved ones tomorrow.”
Author: Santayana Rose — is passionate about writing and ideas.
Here is another Poem by Santayana Rose…
Here is an introduction to this series of poems.