She pounded her fists on the old, oak table,
And stamped her feet in fiery rage.
She tossed from her face her ebony hair
Which fell in soft curls to her waist.
The color of her face was one of white chalk.
She was frustrated and livid with rage.
Her midnight-blue eyes were pools of wisdom,
Defiantly belying her innocent age.
Within moments a rosy hue swept her pure face,
Such a bewitching creature to behold.
Her chest heaved in pain as the sobs racked her body,
And her eyes filled with tears, that down her cheeks rolled.
Day turned to night, there was soon a dead silence.
She lay on the bed pale and still.
With her aching head buried in a snow-white pillow,
Of disillusion she had endured more than her fill.
Later, in the silence, in the depths of her sleep,
In a voice filled with pain, she murmured,
"He loved me, he said so! Was I a game to play?
Tell me God, why did it have to end in this way?"
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