Desdemona's Ghost Protests (Poetry)

Of course, I never liked him — always knew
Iago was a worm — a hypocrite
a gossipmonger and a schemer, too
yet Othello wouldn’t hear a word of it.

We women are the pawns of wicked men —
our innocence corrupted by forked tongues
which wag their power, time and time again
whilst we sit dumb as dogs — downtrodden ones.

But learn, my sisters, see from my sad tale
men have imaginations seeped in sin
for such is virtue on a sliding scale
that, whore or virgin, we can never win.

Though I was true, the rumour held more thrall —
that ugly story caught my husband’s mind —
my protests were of no account at all —
and proof? — there was no proof for him to find!

And yet he killed me on our marriage bed —
smothered under pillows, taking care
that I should die with no forgiveness said
to ease the struggle, quieten my despair.

But truth will out — Iago shall pay dear
for all his lies — I’ll choose his bloody fate
revenge is satisfying, so I hear —
thus he will know the jagged edge of hate!