A childhood rhyme claims words cannot wound,
Yet she wields her beauty against rivals
Sailors who hear the Siren’s Song leave swooned,
As they fall, their squeals transform to growls.
She gently breaks them, prisoners of mind.
She imprisons the hearth, far from any soul’s touch.
Hell is the home of the weak, broken kind,
The gate of minds hold back only so much,
To dream can grant bliss or can lead to dread
The pleading screams are heard by useless,
And the help is given by the misled
The depths of the mind ensnare the hopeless

Yet armors of gold transform the mere beings,
When darkness falls, we shall rise as kings.