Dwelling on the past; a perpetual pain,

The wind whispers of hopes and dreams slain,

Words that squeezed the blood from her heart,

And a darkened soul, broken from the start.

Dwelling on the past; those screams in the night,

Her black tears on paper, hidden from sight,

Crying from a pen's nib and not from her eyes,

Those ghosts of the past, those vigilant spies.

Dwelling on the past; the frozen breeze,

Past wounds awakened with relative ease,

The paranoia embroidered in her soul remains,

A vivacious tapestry, knotted threads of pain.

Dwelling on the past; an unfair fate,

Each memory a needle, remembering the hate,

Embedded in her heart a lasting dispair,

They used her like a doll, a voodoo affair.

Dwelling on the past; lost in the fear,

Searching through the fog, crying no tears,

The mist that enshrouds her lost childhood,

Stolen by the voices that she never understood.

Dwelling on the past; those ignorant fools,

Dancing with the devil, using her as a tool,

Body and soul scarred by the eternal beating,

Yet karma guides her towards this terrible meeting.

By James Womack