by Nick Gisburne
She bleeds a drop of silver on the glass,
And finds the false reflection of her soul.
It offers her an opening, to pass
Through misery, to salvage what they stole.
Her daughter, dead, was never theirs to take,
But seven riders snatched her with a spell.
With blasphemy, an oath she dares to break,
She follows, through the flaming gates of Hell.
She screams to see the pieces of her child,
Abused, consumed, reborn, destroyed, again,
And strikes, a mother, desolate, defiled,
A shadow with the wrath, the rage, of ten.
She claims the soul, the life she could not save,
To give it peace, oblivion, a grave.
