Mystique

Around here they call her Mystique
She comes across as sorrowful, subdued and weak;
Does anyone ever stop and wonder what kind
Of sinister tragedy destroyed her mind?

The burden that she carries like a megalith upon her scrawny frame
Leaves her wounded and repulsive, odoriferous with no name.
How is it possible to irrigate a soul
That has been ripped from a body, not long ago….whole

The phemigus follaceous that is her skin
Hides what once was a beauty within
The sweet harmonium of death cutting into her like a knife,
A tired body wasted, like a worn unobtrusive tassel hanging on the cloth of life

The festoon she hangs on the grave of her past
Carry her broken dreams that could never last.
In the shadows of darkness, pondering her objective
She once again asks herself would her death be effective