In the Morrow of her Youth ⭕️
Part 1 ⭕️
In the morrow of her youth, She stands amongst the rubble and sees,
a childish hope for tomorrow shining faintly,
forever holding hands with one of the three,
Forgetting, her fear, your fierceness, the ferocity,
Fantasising, her figment, your fellowship, the free,
Feigning, her forlorn, your forgone, the family.
Dripping in despair,
Your reign like the rain from her lids,
her lips pried open,
screaming or silent,
dragging truth from her gapping flaws,
gloating, grinning, grimacing as she gasps beneath your grip.
Anxiously stained a frosty blue from your bite,
blood and bruises dancing on her body,
she still remembers your ravenous eyes,
feasting on her innocence,
smothering her sincerity,
surrounded by a smouldering, suffocating, seething sorrow.
For what could be less natural,
and yet what could be more severe,
than a love born before beginnings,
beyond balance and baby blues,
and coddled care,
A ruby reflection of you,
feeding off the light bouncing off her frame,
peering into eyes of bitterness and blue,
you saw more of your dark vision,
than her desperate dreams,
fantasies void of herself.
You stared down her eyes,
furious at distraction and diverted vision,
fuming following her drift into a daze,
desperate to regain her attention, desperate to degrade,
demanding her uniqueness to fade,
in light of what you called a trade.