A constant decadent veil of darkness clouds up her eyes.
Deep trenches, dug from anger and fear, sit in silent pride.
Every hollow and crevice, the marker of endless rage held inside
Embedded and rigid, the scars of inner war, she can’t hide.
All she sees now is the damage, that she caused and has felt.
Not just hers to bear, yours also, she is filled with regret.
She is not able to guarantee you won’t feel it’s force, once more, pet,
Baton down your hatches, don’t send your brigade home yet.
You see those unknown to her, unpredictable and misunderstood,
Have enveloped her so, and brought her back to childhood.
And all that was normal, justling, rhyming, exactly as it should,
Has stopped like the windless chyme, replaced by thoughts, few that are good.
When alone in the sunshine or solitary under a cloud of disdain,
What erupts deep inside, few words can explain.
Now surrounded by breath’s empty vapour and stain,
Is the burning, those lines and all of the pain.