Her attire is entirely professional, if her adolescent heart a little placed uncomfortably askew
Few, few, few who truly understood what lies sickeningly beneath

She longs to bring with it tremendous degrees of industrious industry, albeit lethargic and problematically enhanced by lack of comfortable awareness

Her eyes are the miserly and smeared windows to one such seriously faltering soul, once upon a jovial looking-glass entitlement
Nothing for it now but to be frightfully tear-driven aside constantly crying

She takes the clean-cut blade – each to their own lonesome and decidedly indecisive downfall

Sweeps, sweeps, sweeps… til bleeding by the slaughtered bleed of a singular being
Beginning to feel the searing, all-hearing heat of farther, farther, farther outside

Til the prolonging pierce of screaming evil begins to fester, begins to feel its very own breath again – rising from deeply, deeply, deeply within
Steeped with predominant pitfall even if mysteriously, unfairly created by an almighty imagination of undeniably misshapen sorts

As little as she wants for it to do, the weapon of stricken and far-reaching choice chooses to once more abuse an already corroded system of a down ‘n’ out soul

She fell all awhile she was trying her hardest to climb – the light, her shining bright light, is beginning to fade into unknown obscurity again