#divinefemininity

I am fierce + fragile

Spiritual yet psycho

24/7 feral little menace

– from the collection *Zenith through Rhyme*

Original poetry and artwork © Zenith Soulspace. All rights reserved.

Part One: The Maiden

They caged her in glass slippers, and tore away her wings.

They wove her in silk, instead of cutting down her strings.

They wrote her in fairy tales, not stories of success.

They illustrated her in books as a damsel in distress.

They put her on the billboards of makeup and beauty creams.

They handed her glitter, and a mirror that blurred her dreams.

They choked her with a necklace, and cuffed her with a handbag.

They taught her that freedom always comes along with a price tag.

But silence was her shield, and her patience was the blade.

They thought they killed the Maiden, but she refused to fade.

For the Maiden blooms in rebellion, laughs loudly, and says—

"You can downplay my image, but I won't shrink for your gaze."

Part Two: The Mother

They told her cradle was a duty, not a choice of her heart.

That mothering was no instinct, but a learned form of art.

They weighed her worth in milk, and her endurance of pain.

They crowned her in sacrifice, and called it her sweet reign.

They walked her to the kitchen, where praise measured taste.

They sat her in the living room, where order judged her grace.

They branded her upbringing, made her womb a hot debate.

Her life became a spectacle, she felt burned on every stage.

But resilience was her candle, and her courage was the flame.

While busy in her chores, the Mother mastered their game.

For the Mother thrives in quiet, and lets her lullaby proclaim—

"You can try to limit my world, but I'll birth another in my name."

Part Three: The Crone

They feared her silver hair, and the wrinkles on her face.

They tried to dye her in color, said gray was a disgrace.

They scrolled past her existence, called her wisdom out-of-date.

They mocked her for her candor, marked her truths second-rate.

They told her time moved on, and left an empty space.

So she should fade quietly, and vanish without a trace.

They viewed her smile as smirk, her laughter as a crime.

Claimed her the scheming serpent, a witch in her prime.

But insight was her compass, and ancestors her guiding light.

Foolish were they to think the Crone would yield without a fight.

For the Crone declares through the storm, her verdict rings the atmosphere—

“The female body was once worshiped as holy. What we now call mythology was once theology.”