No More Than a Story
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"Once upon a time," the cruel intentioned man chanted,
A smile grew across his face, sickeningly slanted.
His features emphasized by a swinging light,
Bare wired and illuminating his everlasting night.
One million shadows sewn to his skin shiver,
Their fingers moving smoothly, calmly, however.
Blood diluted sweat drips from his brow,
The scene that dominates her life, here and now.
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"there was a girl who cried" pain, rape, assault,
But to no avail her broken body fell to the asphault.
Preceeding incidents at fault due to lack of evidence,
The rest of her family? Buried under porous sediments.
Cries are little more than sighs to others today,
'She could find a million ways' is what they used to say.
Awaking to the moist cellar once more, she screams,
Her very lungs feel as if they're about to shatter her rib beams.
The darkened figure, hunched over a failing stove,
Their teeth shine, as if they'd found a treasure trove.
Walking closer, closer, yet, so much further that close,
The first thing she recognized? The blood stained clothes.
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"wolf. Three times, in fact," her spine cracked,
The force of the blow encouraged a ninety degree back.
Facing the ceiling in an eerie sense of knowledge,
Her living corpse fell like a boy from his sledge.
No longer visible, but their movements still clear,
A strange anticipation, the precursor to fear.
Muscles seizing from the stress, a mental excess,
Scare tactics materializing into success.
The stare of deep blue eyes, mentally erasing,
Mind? Racing. Eyes? Pacing. Body? Tracing.
The killer lets out a scream of shock...
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As she peers into the mirror held aloft.
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"but no one came on the third." She was left to burn,
The drugging, the mind games her father learnt.
Playing tricks on his last living offspring,
Convincing her she was the murdering sibling.
Laughing, sitting in the dark basement once more,
Her cries of insanity will be heard all the way to heaven's door.
Music in his lifelong symphony, the pure emotion of art,
Destroying others live's is his existential mark.
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Her life is no more than a story in the book of life,
Half a page for his five year old daughter's strife.
A message to God, to the people, it may well be,
However, one may argue, this isn't even reality...
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It's n...no m-more than a... a.. story.
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