Snatched by the taunts of foes
her feelings are yard for ills.
Each step reminding her of an insolent past
blest by all that wanted her fall.
Her dawn brought her down
when the will of pseudolovers prevailed.
And like a spoilt omelette
she was no good for the taste bud.
Of genuine heart, all afar
speculating her frail state.
And what will the day do
when the night is afraid to come to her.
And the tongue of haters
grew stronger and better.
Wrecking every bit of her
that survived the last fall.
Then angels came for the repair
to aid with the Arabian balm.
And salve of soothing thrills
abundantly flowed and swelled.
Yet eons gone, she remained ill.
No improvement, no recuperation.
Her soul is a diminishing returns
with no utility but cost accumulating.