her existence is terrible,
a herAld of torment and a falsehood by definition.
she was born of crUelty and malice,
a perfect child that has seen nothing but darkness.
and yet deSpite her agony,
despite the isolation of her imitation of life,
she is not without comPassion.
no matter how spiteful she seems, i tell you-
her hatred is a high fever that wIll break.
dressed in rags and Coated in ash,
hEr voice is haunting and beautiful.
hopelessness, it seems, is not without artistry.
her cries of anguish blend together into some unearthly song,
her writhing in pain becomes a terrible dance.
she plays a note her flute.
it's familiar to you.
it's