To The Widow Poem by Ben Banda

To the widow, tolerably the burden is born,
To her, freely companies are gained,
Seeding on her only lonesome shoulders torn,
A desolate empire, she, the anointed.

And then, all her tittles come in grace, in files;
Yes ‘free for all’ and ‘all for the free’;
‘All for the free’ and again ‘free for the free’.
Within her, her confederacy swells.

Her bloated throne, all of her, she all free in it,
Doom, she’ll never front, but will duel,
Lest, she all feral, shall exceedingly reinstate
And uphold the might swords in hell.