A paroxysm of weeping wracks an entrancing heart,
Like an all-destroying thunderstorm on a full moon night.
Blue, miserable sobs escape the petals of her lips.
Melancholia, all-consuming, conquers the folly of her bright,
Geranium-scented, impotent dreamscape.
A fiend, bereft of candour, or any showing of purity,
Claws at her weakened shape,
Driven by infernal alacrity.
Ripping and tearing, at pale, sickly flesh,
The gore of doubt paints a portrait of self.
And the creature bears a dismaying resemblance.
A mirror materialises ahead, made of fallen stars,
Held by fell angels of blasphemy.
She dares to chance a glance, at her ruined,
Mangled form and the black deaths that craze her.
But all she sees is a porcelain doll,
With the white hair of Purity,
The shining skin of Grace,
The bewitching eyes of Charm.
She feels a potency build inside her,
And an epiphany lights her soul.
Her faultless, inhuman eyes—
Spark with unbounded mania.
She is the demon.
She is the tempest.
She will rise from her carnage.
Like a phoenix of decay.
And put fear in the hearts of men.
