Some escape, I could pleasure-
For having grieved my obedient self;
A girl to be moulded to have a mind
As narrow as her waist and
Regret not having tasted the sweet fruits
Nature does grant by human rite.

In my weary hours of death
I find myself, petrified, through slow glass-
Shifting and shaking through cruelty.
Heaving and hurling through naivety.
The frozen image of terrified marionette
Who's stare pierces me with a frosty vignette.