Denizen of the Kensington-Olympia station, Russian pawnshop.
Poor beautiful creature,
Impossibly stunning,
In impossible agony
Who built this place?
It is your Prison.
Who brought you here?
You are not of this squalor.
Who tortures you so?
He does not deserve your faithfulness.
Who are you?
I am no one.
Gazing through greasy, soot-stained grey windows
Blonde hair glowing in the apocalyptic light
Shackled to some unknown master
Perfect beauty in an ugly world.
Dagger? Dagger? What is this?
Sulieman's blood stained weapon.
Only her blood could be so perfectly incarnadine.
Her hand soaked, the flurries begin
Dazzling, dancing around her
A new skirt of unknown purity
Slopes of the whitest snow fall about her
Covering her wound
but not smothering her screams of terror
Her children fall from her
black specks and shadows of what could have been
Her head pitched back in a soundless cry
A new sound of purest agony
building and growing
welcoming her children into the world
as they are born away on the acrid smoke
of the outside town
Oh master hers, spare her this!
Such beauty should not have to suffer.
Oh children of Centralia,
Live you still at this mouth of hell?
Then keep this one angel
safe from the icy lakes and Lucifer's wings
Then keep this one angel
away from the hands of her master
Oh master hand! What new agony is this?
Grand puppeteer, controlling this girl
Folding her, origami paper skin that she has
smaller and smaller he makes her
A soup can her new home
Her tears crystalline in the dying sun, overflow, flood the streets
Wicked laugh! You had a hand in this!
Verdant, velvet, spider-silk Dr.!
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