Reaper, She.

Each sweet amend fails to a bitter lip

Derailed, the sound does rip

Through lifestyles, lifetimes, amore

Until the bitter end, the sweet once torn

The delicious distaste, the inevitable irony

Happens, in spite of the malicious tyranny

Freedom, a granted liberty though unknown

Forced the oppressed to grow, and grown

Oh! It is the falsification of night

That unleashes the fire of beautiful light

A fear of mere demeanor

And that: A fear of She, the reaper

Detaches the bud from which I was born

By the lisp of Her unrequited scorn.