• on a dim, empty stage,
    with the spotlight well-trained,
    the damsel of the day,
    cast her sonnet to one.

    and later, in bed,
    with a ghost at her side,
    she touched herself softly,
    and viciously cried.

    they say three is lucky,
    they say it's a charm,
    like a fake ring on her finger,
    and the blood on her arm.

    his lips were like a disease,
    always chafed over in lies,
    sending razors to flesh,
    and blood to shoot through her eyes.

    and though the sunlight may stream in,
    and the actress may sing,
    nothing will fill her empty arms,
    or qualm her childish dreams.

    she choked on her last line,
    and stumbled over her first,
    until the audience roared with displeasure,
    and her hatred was nursed.

    so, away she locked herself,
    into a well so deep and wide,
    and played and imagined and created again,
    that her one true love was by her side.

    for poets use lies to tell the truth,
    and politicians tell lies to conceal it,
    but this one little girl, well-versed in her poems,
    cried her way to be known and to steal it.

    for what's one to do when a heart is so shattered?
    pick up all the pieces and begin then, to mend?
    or simply wallow away in a world made of ice,
    and read the script the way only Hell would intend?