As the steam rose over fingers bare
She thought how life could be unfair
Bonded to the ironing station
The symbol of her incarceration
Under sister's solemn glare.
How difficult to not dispair
knowing she could no longer bear
The searing pain of conflagration
As the steam rose.
She brushed aside a stand of hair
Put down her iron, as to prepare
And fight against her deprivation
With one almighty confrontation
As the steam rose.
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For some reason I'm yet to fathom I'm unable to reply to comments left by others so thank you for dropping by and taking the time to read and comment. Merlene