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Ananya Dutta

Horror

3  

Ananya Dutta

Horror

What Hath Thou Done To Me?

What Hath Thou Done To Me?

3 mins
190


Etch not unto her pliant flesh,

Cruel marks of your monstrous desire,

She bears your atrocities,

With silent rage,

Waiting to unleash her wrath... 


Yet, is the time of ye sin never counted by one but, her brain that, amidst the cacophony of ye black had her eyes beheld, 

Yet, unfolding the curtains merely for many a shadow to lurk within those bushes so deep in the green of what was once her place of a fugitive, 

Somehow strives to avert stupefaction. Indeed, may thine act be sinful but, 'twas a work of such fascination to her - 

For was her innocence yet to abnegate her side; may thine act of such blood be gory a victory to thee but, will remain, 

Thine fingers beneath her skin, palpable lest 'tis numbness that ransacks a stance right there, thy skin conceived her palpable at - 

Was not she aware of thine work of art in as she still slept too fast in her cradle of infancy but, may thee be aware - 

Art ye marks of thine fingers so engraved on the shade of what she wears as her body now.


There, am I, one to reside in her, incandescence nearly fading into some void of so crystal a nothingness that sits at me vicinity; 

Can thou behold thy victory standing so indomitable now? Alack! Can thee not? Why for must hath I been so pleasant, was I not? 

May I grasp ye elation me dear, stand I by thy window at this time of ye night but, may thee know - 

Has it been so calm a night since I sleep that did thou witness? I want thee to know that hear I, 

Thy breath of serenity as let thee, thy desires of other moments of elixir so directly through thine mind at respite now, and ah! 

Hath I not conceived any greater peace of ye kind as am I in, in that same hour, right beneath ye sylvan bearing grey and above the branches of roses so red, oh! 

'Tis me blood my dearly but, am I so peaceful right here my love! 


Mayhap, 'tis some creeper that pesters me now, and it scratches my to core. 

Alas, it pricks me, admirer, in secrecy but, 'twas tranquility that I came seeking here. 

Ah! Alas! 'Tis too palpable beneath ye shroud of my purity, and must thee know - 

Try I to not let ye shroud slip under me but, does it not cease...

Alack! Can me cheeks perceive the tears that stand at the brink of my eyes, and now they come falling, leaving me eyes - does me skin corrode, 

'Tis so warm for me to avert ye burning flames of the same abstract persevere I, is still unaware of ye entity... 


What is it, my love? What is it for, am I being blinded along! Y

Et, there remains a grin on me visage for must not one mortal passing the avenue behold, 

Not one! As thee slumber off beneath a quilt of white feathers, 

Do I hold mine - is mine merely gory...


Repulsive a smell is me air now, and breathe I but, 'tis no longer deniable that suffocate I in lieu; amidst this entirety, 

Stand I unfamiliar...remain I unaware, oh! Am I so unaware of this sensation! 

Was peace so known to inflict lest heed I the same as ironical! 

Must I be told at ye least, and venture must thou not to assess it as a levity! 

'Twill be ribaldry lest thou desire for me to bleed... Alas! What hath thou done to me?


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