That’s innocence going,
Chaperoned by arm-twisting fear;
as once, trust was her chaperone
her confidence, entombed in love.
Her cries muffled, her radiance shadowed,
Her body conquered by a puppet.
Who can be held responsible?
Her honour, rip-wrenched from her,
her skin vandalised with soap and sponge;
her sleep invaded,
aspirations lost in life’s gridlock.
Leaving her guilty, defeated and unloved,
dying backbone of ardour,
hard-bitten ozone of ultra-violence,
misery and despair,
now her forte.
Wearing lustful shackles,
cold but familiar.
Who indeed can be held responsible?
©2013 Kemka Ezinwo