Run little girl.
So very far and hide.
Don’t sit little girl.
Stand, look him dead in his eyes.
Shout little girl.
Make him fear the sound of your voice.
Scream little girl.
Your pain taking back your choice.
Strike out little girl.
Let your nails slice his face.
For you are his nightmare.
The sentence to his fate.
Solitary she sat, eyes clouded white and red.
Pieces shattered around her, adorning the land of dead.
In hell you found her, demons caressing cheek.
Eyes vacant. A lifeless body, worn and so very weak.
A hand you offered, warm with heavenly light.
A welcome reprieve from eternal night.
Your love, the light. Her eyes not yet acquainted.
Turning away, a wall she painted.
With hammer and hinge, you created a gate.
Never once accepting dismissal of fate.
Slowly she moved, heartbeat steady.
Eyes, now clearer. Voices whispering “you are ready”.
She stands strong and secure, shadows not touching her face.
Holding your hand, not a breath shall she waste.
Diagnostic Projection to the Death’s Head Moth