The wounds left no marks,
But engraved her tears in her soul.
Her tattered clothes reminded me,
Of the melancholy strain of her life.

Unknown to the very word of happiness,
She crumpled herself down-
in the thorns of scorn.
Pitied, bullied, blamed and accused,
She left no trace of smile to give back.

Her eyes sunken with despair,
Portrayed her pathetic self.
Smoked and rejected she laid down,
Her love to be sucked out and thrown,
Into the bare hands of humiliation.

Like a piece of cloth that has been worn out,
Her vigour was darted out to build empires.
But no records were kept , no memoirs.
For, she was often Lost and Found.

Cradles were built to bury her bones.
And Promises were given to suck her blood.
Hopes were given to ruin her chastity.
To hurl her into the inferno of shame and disgrace.

Efforts were made to keep her dreams bleak.
Her hands were tied and her tongue was cut.
Chained her and marked her with red.
Once finished, she was bottled and kept aside,
To decorate the walls of his world.