As the tormentor weeps,
The flashing red river of rage
Deep inside the bowels of my heart,
They lose their meaning as they dry up
Oh, my tormentor's grief,
It's as real as the dawn-break of the morrow
And a part of me wonders, despite sympathy's hold,
Why was my sorrow as irrelevant as the dusk of today?
For she didn't bat an eyelid
The tormentor and her grief,
Every object in the universe,
Inanimate or otherwise, are to be blamed
While the cruel lady reaps what she sowed,
Nary a thought about what she has done
The tormentor and her ever-present sorrow
Give reasons anew for her agitation and abuse,
Tantrum and the blows dealt
Oh, her sorrow, it only spreads
And claims the joy of the reddest of hearts.

YOU ARE READING
A budding writer's collection
PoetryJust a bunch of poems written as and when I feel to write them