II-XVII In a Basement With Bertha Mason

Greeks stand tall on Troy’s wide shore,

fortune smiled when hope once soared.

They cast me down into a pool,

where pain and heat of home were cruel.

Now I sing of vengeance, bold,

thrown to beasts, with hearts so cold.

I teach the dead of justice’s claim,

reviving those who seek to blame.

Karma comes as it desires,

for some it cools, for others, fires.

Yet karma too must taste its end—

for we, with will and soul unbent,

will take what’s ours by false pretense.

Consequences, a common thread,

why suffer just to live instead?

We climb the space ’tween earth and sky,

unfazed by what they dare supply.

I wonder where this strength I find—

as if others’ pain could cloud my mind.

But truth reveals it’s just my own,

seeking not to stand alone.

Not a saint of justice true,

nor a saint of death’s pursuit.

Just a soul that longs to share,

a victim craving someone’s care.

They offer love, so pure, so sweet,

in some I’m lost, in some they leave.