She has a Gift.
Wrapped and labelled
with His name in cursive.
But it is empty.
Down at His feet,
jesters juggled balls of fire,
ballerinas twirled wearing stilts.
The crowd stretches
for miles and miles away,
everyone has something to give.
And at the very end of it,
she stood.
Her hands
gripping the Present,
filled only with Hope.
And the paper was blotched with tears,
the cardboard crushed between her fingers.
The best she has got
is not good enough.
Quivering lips
muttering inaudible sounds.
Her eyes see nothing
before her.
They closed,
light shied behind shades.
A smile.
A look filled with Love.
Her Father saw right through
into the ugliness of her heart.
She hissed and snarled
like the Serpent
like the Beast.
Humiliation was her anger,
to leave was her plea.
Silence was her answer,
to hate was her kiss.
Her riddles
are her confessions.
Her pain
is her secret.
Away from
He who loves her demons.
Now His pain
is her passion.
Flee.
Ivory came
before her eyes.
There,
was the Portrait of She.
Her bones disintegrated into dust.
Her flesh melted into a splash of tears.
Her skin became the nothingness in the wind.
Every one of her features is an irony to each other.
Her brows arched like hissing cats, hating.
Her eyes flowed like emptying jugs, crying.
Her lips warped like Satan's cross, smirking.
Slowly,
the face frozen with the indescribable expression fades away,
into a blizzard of white blindness.
Leaving only the cold winter wind.
