In whispered halls, of shadowed vice,
A tale unfolds of cold as ice;
The ink, it bleeds a story old,
Of a girl, whose heart was bought and sold.
Her laughter rang, a chime of dread,
As she danced on dreams that now lay dead;
She knew a boy, so keen and bold,
Who turned warm hearths to nights untold.
A woman wept, ‘neath stars, alone,
Her shelter lost, her fortunes thrown;
And this young girl, with eyes of slate,
Rejoiced in ruin, served by fate.
Her name—oh, speak, but with a hiss,
A sound that slithers into abyss;
For evil donned a comely face,
She wore it well, in dark disgrace.
To relish in the pain of loss,
To toast to chaos, hearts to toss;
She deemed the sorrow of others sweet,
A symphony of souls in defeat.
What twisted paths our lives may take,
When malice is the road we stake.
The girl, a specter of despair,
Feeds on the wrecks from her velvet chair.
Beware, beware the joy in tears,
The reveling in whispered fears;
For in the night, she waits, she stays,
A poem of evil, dressed in a name.
