Eleven

in rooms of rainbows bloomed her powers some stranger things - one sweet, soft flower though daft with graft, men grilled and nudged yet, HER book’s cover, quite poorly judged through trust in Papa, risked life and limb but all those things she gained from him were cloaked with lies and borrowed breath and brought her naught but grief and death those sordid secrets, she dared disclose while trickled, red, from ‘neath her nose dread demogorgons - turned useless churl by one strong, honest, though modest girl the wounds ran deep in that smallish town but deeper, still, ran the Upside-Down that dark realm defied all the strength of men yet, was NEVER the match for one more than … ten.