Was she but the fallen
Come down to raise an Arcadian hell,
Avoiding peace in graceful slalom,
Encased in her callous breathing shell,
Most would describe her as the Cacodemon,
With the eyes of baleful sin,
Defined by her nefarious inner demon,
That had beguiled her sanity to its whim,
She breathed of ethereal indignation,
Sought upon her by trenchant thoughts,
Damning her for indulging in feelings as dissipation,
By those who seek defamatory purity as frauds,
She was the unwanted succubus,
Whose earnest beauty cost too high a price,
Her darkly alluring convictions were a neuritis,
Brought too bare all adamant admirers vice,
She was thought to be the rakshasa,
Condemned for safeholding her own heart,
Not wanting persue any psychodrama,
Not wishing for a reckless counterpart,
So she clinged to her hellhounds,
To hold at bay any contemptuous intruder’s,
And so they dub her hell bound,
Ignorant of her past patronizing prosecutors.
She is the Cacodemon,
As she shuts her gates from all,
Trusting none acclaimed shaman,
As she has already been judged to fall