Lady of the hour

clothing weaved
gently
breathing life and soul
into it was
the lady of the hour

supposedly perfect
her life was
a harmony
that never went wrong
is what people thought

the cloth carried
a grief
of her childhood
her juvenile
youth

she was a wild fire
ripping her corset
apart she stood
looked at the vase
that was her body

the scars
the grief
the shame
all bundled up
all visible

a knock
a demanding voice
she tried to
cover it
tearing up

the scars
the grief
the shame
woefully
all over again
- Sakshi