Poems

THE BROOMSTICK

Behold her single in the corner,
ingloriously lying, neglected – a withered bundle of twigs
bound together in a life of eternal bondage.

Destined to obey every command,
condemned to clean every home,
and speak not of the ignominy of a life of such drudgery.

At length worn out, to the very stumps,
thin and frail, a shadow of her former self…

She finds herself thrown away
to rot and die a slow and painful death;
or condemned to a quick and fiery one
in the last use of kindling a fire…

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