Fastenings and thick strings
Daintily her feet hang down, that trademark
Serene smile playing across her ruby lips.
Roughly they lace her, clean and white: pure, they call her, pure as the
Virgin dew on the farthest mountains on the night of eclipse.
Her eyes flutter, she tries to catch her breath in vain, she is dead.
Ravenous she awakes from her grave, Poised even in her
Fury, her golden locks like forest fire fly untamed
Her bindings tattered, the claws of her feet clutch the ground firmly
In vengeance, she revolves to strike down, them who shall be unnamed.
Demurely she sits, casting her eyes down at the ends of her silken
Heavy gown. A pretty doll she is, they agree appreciatively.
She can only listen while they bind her with painful spasms. None too bright, they call her.
Best leave her affairs in our able hands, they cry, clucking their tongues in feigned sympathy.
She rolls down the stairs, tripping from the agony of her burdens, she is dead.
In her dreams she is reborn, spitting fire from the tunnels of her eyes;
Seething with rage she charges at them, devours all in vicinity.
The earth around her darkens, damp with the filthy red of their blood;
That drips from her fingers as she smiles at her peaceful atrocity.
Quietly she sobs, her eyes shimmering with the tears that
They frown upon and disregard completely.
Submissive, they call her, their grip tightening on the reins only she can feel.
We have moulded her well, her nectar is drawn, they cackle gleefully.
The reins choke her, she stutters, she is dead.
On a cloudless dawn she falls back to sleep, her vow fulfilled, breathtaking in the
Intoxicating fumes of her newfound freedom.
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