She sits upon her distant homeless throne:
That lonely princess tearing up her eyes.
At first one does not hear her heart of stone,
nor feel her constant floodfill wall of lies.
When closely looking one could see there lay
those marks upon her soul in engram print.
The sharp discerning mind can know that they
do of some hidden hauntful memories hint.
Yet, even though men’s foolish hearts may flow
towards this hurt and whirlwind loveless Miss;
her pokerfaced dissembling — head to toe —
will soon deter seduction by her kiss.
Thus, every lie, deception, angry rail
becomes an unintended coffin nail.
© 2012, Alan Morrison