Friday, May 4, 2012
She'd gone the way of Gandhi,
Refusing sustenance as a form of protest.
Her corrupt jailors could keep their meager meals;
The bread of tyranny was anathema to her.
They sneered at her, said innate need would break her spirit.
Still she ignored her pangs, stayed true to her masochistic cause,
Even after her oppressors abruptly stopped appearing,
Stopped bringing her curious journalists or dinner trays.
An isolate, she lay prostrate in her cell, weak but willful,
Until finally she succumbed to martyrdom.
She came crawling back but a few hours later,
The personification of irony, with no notion of nonviolence.
Nothing more now than a ravenous cadaver, encaged,
And all her political statements turned to guttural moans.