Victoriana 

I tried to live,

According to the morals,

Of the day,

Though I have tried.

Finding myself,

Plated to fool,

The casual eye.

But scratch,

And you will find,

Unhappy metal.

I am the peasant daughter,

Brought to town,

With promises of better life,

But working on the street,

To please same pimp.

Locked in a corset tight,

Bound in by strings,

Of ” this is who you are.”

Controlled by social dictate,

Unfeeling niceties,

The need to be.

No more.

The corset is undone,

And breath can come.

Ribs that were cracked,

Can heal again,

But they will bear the marks.

And I may wander, now, again,

Through country lanes,

And smell sweet flowers,

Free of collector’s greenhouse cage.

The plate has worn away,

Revealing true metal,

Some might call base,

Yet fits its purpose.

For my creator,

Called me in to being,

A thing more useful,

Even when I chip.

A thing of purpose,

Not to sit upon a shelf,

Dusted by maids,

To find my worth in carats.

Victoria’s agree it’s done,

Now comes the age,

Where I must fight,

For all that I hold true.

  

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