Her clothes were pristine
So was she…
Yet her heart was torn in between
Without a wrinkle above…
What should she choose
Herself or her’s?
When Giving in to someone’s innumerable whims
Hurt her soul.
‘Let it go!’ someone cried
Definitely not the tormentors circumambient.
It was her bruised heart
Still clinging to her shredded pride…
And she did
letting the deceptive fortress fall!
She climbed up the rubble
Sewing back the respect
That she let be torn…
When she reached up the pile
Every meagre life beneath
No longer dared to scratch her pride…
Vpoetry 