In a plagued Heaven,
Perhaps I can exist without
Constant thought of Death
Looming over my mind,
With no other reason
But to threaten my Sanity.
Alas, in this palace-like place,
I am caught even more in the web
Placed under the spell of Death’s beauteous charms.
Falling, tumbling, soaring,
Living in my own personal, tainted Heaven,
Forced to accept the sweetness
Of Death’s Mercy,
Though I weep for
Being prey to a Mercy
That should not exist,
Not like I exist
For in the weak existence
I am subjected to live.
It does not truly exist
On the Grand scale of things.
No,
Not like the existence of the Sun,
The Moon,
The Earth;
Whose own place in the realm
Of Life and Honesty
I begin so greatly to question.
Why should I believe
In a place
Where Hatred and Truth combine
And aimlessly murder the life
Once awarded to the Father,
The Son,
And the Mother,
Perhaps her more so than the rest.
Isabella, the face of Beauty,
Forgiven from her.
The face of the ocean
And the birthing force of
All that is Mighty and Holy.
Isabella, she fades,
Fades into the black eternity
That she is so cruelly betrothed to.
See her, dancing.
Feel her, falling.
All of the twists and turns
She encounters along the way
To find her inner sanctity,
Her own Heaven
Plagued heavy with Shame,
Fear and Guilt.
Once more we fall apart
From where we once lived,
From who we once knew.
Isabella is dead,
Finally, graciously.
Isabella is dead.
Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel
Lil' Red Writing Hood 