The name you christened me,

fair Victoria,

does not reflect the agony of my birth.

I am a scar,

a gaping, gawping hole

in this world’s weary body;

a scooped-out, sightless eye

forever fixed on

but unable to see the sky.


No-one saw me born;

no frightened eyes were shielded

by rapidly-raised hands

as my Father punched my Mother

Mars so hard, so brutally

her body shook for days,

leaving behind an open wound

that e’en an aeon

of drifting dust could never fill.


In my indignant, incandescent rage

at being born I

scattered shattered stone

out of my cooling crib;

vomited smoke and ash

into the lacerated sky,

banishing both cerulean sun and

ice bright stars until

my agony had ended.


Time passed – and ate away at me,

gnawing on my body like

a crow upon a corpse.

My edge, once smooth, a graceful

curve, jagged and ragged

became; a sore, saw-blade

shark-tooth sculpture

of crumbling stone, the

shattered bones of my angry youth

left protruding

from the ground to be wind-whittled

and hewn into grinning gargoyle

buttresses and balconies of

splintered, sharp-shard stone.


Leaving me hollow.



And now, lured here by

my Beacon’s ghostly lantern light

you come to me – a scurrying

metal messenger from the

Morning Star; impatient to lean over

the gory edge of my

opened chest and gaze down

at my dust-clogged heart to learn

more about my life?


Do not expect me to surrender

my sad secrets instantly – or easily.


I am worth more than that.


© Stuart Atkinson 2006

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