The Price of Freedom

The title, wife, was of no essence.

She was as valued as the Uzbek coin.

Only cared for her presence

enough to ease the pressure in his groin,

after which he was disgusted by her existence.

Ever-so-ready – was he – to start a pancratium.

Once, very furious, he grabbed tight at her brachium

for defying him right there at the atrium.

Those hands, strong as titanium

struck so hard, could’ve cracked her cranium.

To ease the pain, she relied on Valium;

the burning hate in her, her mind’s palladium.

When, no more could she stand the hitter,

her best option became dinner.

Fixing, serving, watching – her hope, a glimmer

as he devoured the poison-laced pita.

His imminent death, a thriller

which, indeed, would make her a winner

as equally as it would her, a killer.

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