Backed into a corner,
A house pet in the wild,
A gift-wrapped, tamed mourner,
With the stoned heart of a child. 

Head buried in gold pages
That promised her the sun,
Through stone-pressed dark ages
With time's wheels that never spun.

Walls of love and honour
That build her grand throne hall,
The day that God had crowned her
Was the day that marked her fall.

The noose around her tightened, 
With the silk around her breast,
As her honey, slick skin ripened
To a sight, you can't attest.

Her eyes remained the same
The hazel, golden brown
The light in them reclaimed
Leaving empty, wooden rounds.

The throne that tugged upon her
Corpse-like bloody gown, 
Mourned the chains that held her
While her body slowly drowned.
Syeda Erum Noor is dangerously oblivious and has no sense of time. Send help at [email protected]