Stitch This

I used to read the Tales of the Martyrs
And wonder at the variety of ends
They came to as they held beliefs steadfastly
Defiant ’til they dropped down, spent, away.

My favourite was ‘pressing’ like olive oil
Life seeping out between boards
With each weight added inflicting
More pressure than one could endure

But that was the Dark Ages
Now we are light
Our modernity lifts us away
From the drudgery, heaviness, grind of it all
As we hold close our trust that there’s more, so much more left in store
We believe we can do it
Balance work and life
We cling to our female right to be ‘more than a wife’
We’ll die before leTting our right to choose slide

But I’m pressed
Paper thin
And the rOcks just get bigger
I’m no martyr, no zealot no saint,
I have guilt
What’s the point I am proving
To whom do I crow?
My oils run dry now
I fade into my soul.