Lost in the corridors of purity is a soul,
Whose ambition is nothing short of grand,
Torn by disdain, blinded by dim whispers,
Wrath and sorrow, take her by the hand,
Left to wander in uncharted waters,
Grasping the last drops of hope,
Mercilessly torn, an entity left in tatters,
With nothing left but a dreaded envelope.
Clad in flames of passion,
Contradictory to one's greed for pleasure,
To stain one's soul, as is disdain's fashion,
In a deluge which knows no measure.
Grieved tears trickle down fair skin,
Hurt akin to overwhelming madness,
Possession, passion and haunting malice,
Clad in a certain girl's injustice.