Pandora

Savindri Ferdinando, Sri Lanka

Lies say the chains are of my
own making; twisted, wrought through

reddened fingers, bleeding still;
calloused, nimble, reflections

of girlhood non-existent,
molded into womanhood

by caresses, ichor-laid;
wisdom's feathered touch, a blind god's

skill; mockery tied in pretty,
gilded, metered verse. Am

I the bane? Am I blessed,
as they say, within woven

earthen walls of industry?
Hollowness reflects off Love's

finery- trickery, rather,
for the simpleton. I hand

the wrath of the gods-myself-
and when he opens the gift,

I am his helper, his guide,
their betrayed, weaver bold,

grasping at tightly woven
bars. Parting them. Relishing,

in sickly apricity,
peeking through chilly blinds.

Savindri is an amateur writer whose passions lie in poetry, writing, art and storytelling. An avid mythology enthusiast, she adores the tales of old and is eager to explore them in never before seen perspectives.