Poisonous Protection.

The sky dark, unclear and shadowed by the doubt of our refuge.
The Castle, more like a watchtower, stands across the sinful sorrowed shores.
The very instance to protect a priestess from the rest of the world.

A darkened book, much more cynical, than the ideal of a devil itself.
It’s pages carved of flesh, smoother than any papyrus or oak.
It’s words written in blood of the hostile sinful soldiers, their souls entrapped.
For every word is another scattered fragment of an enemy long past deceased.

The messenger is a woman craving nothing more but love itself.
Her mind constricted by the thought of another, a man, a lover, a friend.
She’s trapped within the woods living on nothing, but the dream of one.
Love has warped her mind, craved her into obsession, and molded her into perfection.

This lonely writ scribes to herself on fleshy pages, her only small fraction of a friend.
The ink, her only form of human contact is infused with friends, her hell bound soldiers.
Her mind wanders like a cloud shadowing every thought with angry tempests.
All of her prayer, which remains suppressed within her mind, has never been heard.
This isolation is more like poison than protection.

Everyday her mind revolves around the same schedule at this time,
She remains on the shores with her sorrow emanating like an aura.
The rocks uneven beneath her solitary article of clothing, a dress of darker hue.

She watches the castle with her black eyes darker than any raven.
Her mind rushes faster than horseback praying her imagination would come true.
Her hate, her despise floods through her body through the canal of veins.
Fury, worse than the devil itself, flows unevenly through her silhouetted frame.
Her face contorts her blood surges, her mind races, she’s fallen victim to sin.

Her sorrowed mind drowned by anger lies suppressed like every thought.
Revenge reins supreme as she crawls into the shores to make an attempt.
A lonely sorrowed god waves her hand in her favour.