A tilted crown on her head,
Reality distorted by her hubris,
Sitting upon throne of fools gold,
A crimson line across her neck.
Her eyes are cold- unfeeling,
But they draw you in still,
Feeding off your desire,
Her lips curved in cruelty.
She offers you her regal hand,
Letting you press your lips to it,
Her ice cold skin burning them,
Leaving a sensation of sorrow behind.
Her nails pierce your skin,
Drops of deep red fall to your lap,
Scars of her overwhelming hold,
Unable to forget the anguish.