In a great hall, a lonely lover sits.
Head bent upeward toward the summit of this towering loom,
she reaches towards the threads woven in vain,
to undo the craftsmanship she has pushed and pedaled out
in her depression.
For three years she has worked on this instrument
of a woman's duty and enforced talent.
All this work unraveled
to divert the unwanted desire of foul men.
Torch held in her lef hand,
safely away from the wooden mountain draped in cloth,
the light drifts through the surrounding darkness and fear.
Penelope's fingers move fast--darting, pulling,
fatigue of many hours being ignored by the vigilant wife.
With an excited heart beating in her aching fingers,
she repeatedly looks behind herself
with the horrifying sounds of heavy footsteps and drunken laughter
still echoing in her mind.
The years of unearned feasting, butchering, and destruction
the many verbal blows helping to force out her tears of disbelief.
As they fall from her eyes now,
in the silence,
she is reminded of the urgency of her secret actions.
Time races by in the dark.
Day will soon arrive.
The suitors will ungratefully appear,
and time will creep in the sunlight
simply to laugh at her tears of faithfuleness.