Do not be fooled by silence.
She’s screaming inside.
This searing pain is her vice.
Behind pleasure it does reside.
She sits on a broken fence,
A smiling mask to hide,
Show the world the nice,
But in comes the tears’ tide.
Wash, bury, then from whence
Remains, bleached bones outside.
Roll the lucky dice.
Open the eyes wide.
Too late…the rhyme has died.