Her name is dead.
To her king,
She was a queen,
But with her,
She was blinded to see,
How this could ever be.
Scarred by her past,
Left to wonder,
Who is this in the mirror looking back at me?
Behind that mask,
she calls a face,
Maybe it's the truth...
What defines that who.
What's really in her roots,
Not the ones under her boots.
But deep in her soul,
You find an incurable hole,
Filled with "true depression"
Scared to ever question,
The pain and it's potential lessons.
"Faded"
And "Filed" away pain and memories
Turn into a train,
Running on the fast lane,
Looking for that therapeutic tamer,
To make her temporarily sane.
With that sanity, an open door of "relief",
Opened by the silver "key"
Unleashing drops of red horror,
Before she could ever see,
What she was meant to be.
