She’s merely a corpse with a beating heart,
Who’s agenda is to live.
Who’s palace is crumbling and existence is fading,
Yet she still has blood- and the blood, she’ll give.
She’s distinctly a fool,
For the fear of solidity haunts her each day.
So scared in this vacant ring of fire,
So tempted to cry yet never on display.
She’s a model with a body who’s mind is in her breasts.
So used to monopoly- she can trap and seduce each one of her vindicated guests.
But when the sun goes down and the moon is bright,
She slashes away her pain.
She knows it’s not right.
But she doesn’t know why,
For the truth is vaguely dim
And she doesn’t know why,
She would obliterate her world for him.
And she doesn’t know how she can picture the alter,
If she throws her sleletons and bones at each guest.
She never learns from her brainless mistakes,
And she prays to soon decide on simply one request.
the [right] one.
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