<Like Lightning>
The clear lake became the turgid creek.
The proud peaks became drab hills.
The twin steeples were unpaired, one shattered, stolen, kept as a trophy.
From skin to pride to horns, I was unmade and crafted into aught less.
Judgment was a cacophony, a chorus of jeers and gossip.

When the court had it's fill, I was cast down to the Pit.


<Deafening Echoes>
Disgraced.
Disfigured.
In the mirror I pull my face.
The skin will not smooth.
The cheeks will not sink.
The lips will not pout.
This face has no charm.

But in the shadow of each crease I see it.
The mirror shows it.
The way I ought to be.
The lines that once made me.
A faint outline.
An etching of what was.
A guide to what I must be.


<Necklace>
They were told to let me keep it.
It was commanded that I have it.
I was compelled to stare upon it.
She crafted it herself, to the court's delight.

Yet out of spite the Pit Lord broke it.
Shattered upon the ashen ground.
Its pieces gathered by his abused imp.
He formed the mirror anew, as aught more.

The token dangled upon a chain.
A prize if I was obedient.
A bounty for going to the mortal realm.
A bait to fix to their lure.