her nose caught the stench of decay

as she makes her way down to

the drowning hole of sorrows;

a green spread beneath her feet,

and sky so full of the

evil, yellow light.

waiting in her coil of terror,

tight and wound to spring,

she begs steel hard:

throwing her body into the movement of

her voice which quakes like fault lines,

grown from tiny fissures that cracked before

the earth caught the sun

and the moon turned red with rage.

a few words, a silent lament,

and a crimson tide pours forth

over the edge of her glass,

flooding her struggling lungs;

she sinks to the ground

a crumpled and broken doll,

and screams with all the madness

of the demons locked in her red box;

the crimson tide rises behind her eyes.