This secret realm that grasps my soul. Owns my life and consumes me whole. What's left of me, I cannot tell.
Wherever it leads me, Heaven or Hell. It's all strung out to seek its prey. I'll never forget that single day. When all that happened was a blur. I remember when it came for her. Dressed in silver, reflecting Sun. It might has well have used a gun. For in the end, the same outcome came. Her parents knew not, whom to blame. Where finally, the bell had rung. It was too late, the beast had sprung. It launched itself through the air. You could never forget her gorgeous hair. That shot straight up with bitter strain. It was again that sacred pain. Then all of a sudden, came the red. Now here she lies, above her bed. This is the poem of Elizibeth Jane. And her story of less than nothing to gain. And if this story may shed a tear. Remember my child, to not live in fear. For fate helps those who do not cry. and punishes those who chose to die.