In the looking glass is seen a sullied lily
From the threshold of whose sable orbs liquid pendants cascade:
Each fraught with one poignance of a myriad.
How could one’s pain the other’s pleasure be?
Whiteness was wrung from the depths that now tell a scarlet story
That none can be privy to save for the undead, asthenic prey and the daily hunter
And the wasted shadow camouflaging itself in what it is made of.
Vice, like poison ivy, overwhelms virtue in the convoluted mind’s vortex,
Its pernicious seed having taken firm root
Burgeon strangling tendrils that render the friendly iris limp.
Yea, what is dead is refractory to the hope renewal.
The sullied lily has naught but a deflowered chassis and a deadweight core:
The bud was forced to open before it was willed to bloom.
Benumbed, the wilting flower remains in the bosom of velvet darkness,
Waiting on the half-brother of sleep her soul to take lest her body should die yet again.
She is a stranger to light and her own reflection.
Circadian rhythm thrown out of kilter,
Sacrosanct hollows forcefully invaded,
Innocence’s membrane rent.
In the looking glass, all she sees is what was an unsullied lily in the lang syne.