She feels like a ruined fortress:
shaking, now shattering, now gone astray,
now digging up, creating a dark hole;
deep enough to lock herself away
with her raging riddles' ablaze desire
to reach him with their throbbing hands.

"How can such a lovely thing
be surged with so much pain?"
He murmur softly in her ears,
and all she can hear are words
like poison keeping her blaze at bay.

And then she cries, she cries not tears
but blood streaming down her fence,
blotting with marks of his name—
once a nirvana to her, now a wasteland
crammed with thunderous cries
of her cluttered self letting last words escape,
"I was once a serene citadel,
now just a lovely thing for someone
mastering the art of constructing lies."