lithedark

A sour girl with eyes ablaze,
Who shoots a rather icy gaze,
She scans the room for docile foes,
And spits a tale that’s fraught with woes.

Dressed for war, yet fragile still,
She preys upon the weak of will,
Condemning actions others take,
Begets confusion in her wake.

At end of day, when light grows dim,
And cooler winds abate hot skin,
Her inner fire, quenched by ire,
Sheathed and shelved appears less dire.

Salty tears of deep remorse,
Cascade her face and run their course,
Controlled by demons deep within,
Furious storm births quiet din.

Strong-hearted souls, they love her so,
Unhurt by vicious seeds she sow,
They cherish her, for life is short,
Quarrels are of no import.