A queen’s gambit, a humble tuble,
with mystery, moves with raven smile
, dark eyes, with weary tears,
suppressed terrors.
The humble abode you wish,
I swear her terror is wits,
with her veins that blood blossoms
oozing through her veins.
Her freckles exploding through her red‑blushed cheeks,
a determined color, wearing red in allure.
For she was a mistress to none, but her own.
Her terror was her mirror,
her dance was sparkle to those tears
that held none but empathy to her distrust figures.
The red roses decayed to her raven smile,
the intense rhythm flowed through her silhouettes,
like violin strings and angel tears.
A bright phoenix she was, she still is,
but a darker mountain,
with magma sparks unlike her lava flows.
Now tell me— will you endure the pain she gives,
will you put a moral dispute,
since her fire grew darker under your gloomy eyes?
Or you missed her brightness,
the one you destroyed. Why a teardrop fantasy,
when you created a melancholic dystrophy?