Mary, a name, not just a whisper,
But a haunting echo of a wrong,
An imprint left by years of scorn,
Borne on the breath of regret and sorrow.
Mary, the syllables heavy,
Each letter a shackle to history,
Carrying the weight of unspoken grudges,
Of mistakes and broken promises.
The eyes that once shone with innocent hope,
Now dulled by the tarnish of disdain,
Mary—each mention a scrape of bitterness,
A reminder of all that’s been lost.
In the hollow spaces where your name lingers,
The silence screams louder than words,
Regret twisting like thorns around the memory,
Sadness pooling where love once dared to tread.
Mary, an echo of a choice not taken,
A ghost in the mirror of faded dreams,
You bear the brunt of every forgotten apology,
A name suffused with the agony of the past.
In the rooms where once was laughter,
Now only the hollow chime of contempt,
Mary—crushed beneath the weight of expectations,
A symbol of what might have been.
Forgive us, for we know not the damage,
The cruel irony of naming, the sharp sting,
Of turning beauty into a battlefield,
Where every utterance is a scar.
Mary, cursed with the burden
Of an inheritance you never sought,
Your name, a shadow of what was lost,
A testament to the bitterness we carry.
