Helen knew the look
And feel of her
Trojan archer, yet
Set aside as she was
Waiting the war out
Reflected much more
On her own momentum,
Guilt, some had said
That she’d assented
Too readily; yet she’d
Been abandoned
And betrayed, left,
While Achaea played
Games, left again
As Hector and Paris
Fended or fell. Now
They’d set her here
Like an antique vase,
No one of moment
Seeing her face,
Her troubled brow.
Thursday, September 30, 2021
Helen, Pensive
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