Damage

A rogue disguised as an artist,
began shaping a piece of clay.
She rejoiced merrily,
although she was just his prey.

He broke her slowly,
calling violence his love and art.
She endured silently,
as better judgment would depart.

Viciously he sliced off pieces,
negating her painful scream.
Convincing her like a child,
telling her it was nothing but a dream.

His lack of skill was evident,
yet the clay did not object.
She became his puppet,
in whom his venom he’d inject.

The rogue did not deserve the clay,
for she was so soft, malleable and pure.
He’d lock her up every night,
only because he was insecure.

She couldn’t see through his malice,
her true beauty began to fade.
He’d hold her up high,
claiming she was what he made.

His fingers couldn’t please her,
endurance now turned to hate.
She saw through his falsities,
and the truth he tried to suffocate.

With nothing left in her,
she slipped through his wretched hand.
To reclaim, reconnect and grow,
she became one with the land.

There was no happy ending,
for the rogue in disguise was still amused.
While the piece of clay moved on,
with scars from being abused.