The Lesser Known Truth.

The masquerade of philanthropy got revived,

After they looked into her dead soul,

From true colors to blue colors,

Everything lied flattered on the floor.

She breathed those corners even in her death,

In her life, though she bled;

She transpired the facades of thorns,

Knowing her fate was yet to be born.

The shovels of the black hearts stabbed her parts,

Like they were pawns to the dart,

Knowing lesser about their mortal intentions,

She drifted from deception to faith.

The last cord of desire hung loose again,

For the man of the departed that rose,

He covered himself in her blood;

And left the last stroke of his real self untold.

Long after she was gone,

They opened the grave of the less fateful,

She was all covered in filths of feather,

Lesser known by all, God’s Mother.