scattered are the shards of her wretched past
each jagged edge piercing the wound of the last

her rage, the crimson reflection in the mirror
of all the shadows, she only has herself to fear

with the machinations of her end contrived
so unwilling to serve in the hell she survived

as she drowns in preconcieved societal depression
which her love makes such an eloquent confession

yearning with the bitter salt of all her tears
to be free of this iron prison that is her years

the indiscriminate numbness to everything, everyone
the ashes of her heart so undone

consumed by her many mistakes
what remains but the fake?

her ghost is the only thing left to see
the living undead she came to be

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Chronos, in the year 384 AF.