Despondency

A lady in a Victorian dress, Next to an old printing press. Within a gloomy writing lair, Falling down the abyss of despair. I can see the tempest in her heart, It’s like a wild museum of art. She is a tornado trapped in a jar, On a raft drifting way too far. In a mighty yet desolate dwelling, Where silence is loudly yelling. There in a chamber, she is found, Lying in tears on the ground. Surrounded by quivering souls, All disguised, lurking in the halls. Longing for her inviting plea, To help her flee, to set her free.