Falling away into pits of endless, inky black,
Stapling broken pieces, but it seems frivolous since the start,
Starving for a pretext to salvage the remains of her soul, a work of art,
Hanging onto shattered souvenirs, still clutching onto deceiving hands,
Trust bleeds from her ears, yet she's there for people who try to rip her apart,
Silent since the beginning of an eternity, standing on broken glass,
Melancholic waves begging her to stop, to finally pick up broken parts,
But she's got this, until the end of time, until she's breathed her last.

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© Dishashree Swain