Residual thoughts, moraly wrong.
Like music without words, that simply goes on.
Who is the real heroine to every child's soul?
That perfect one we have yet to mole.
This legendary rope,
That incinerates all hope.
Expectations we all have made
Damaged goods, are all that remains.
Emerging from this wild clamp that binds,
but most of all reminds.
How can something so pure be tainted by love.
Withdrawn & exhausted, I manage, "What of?"