Writing, the power that masters the beast
That turns into something easy to caress
Into a bliss of doubt
Of fondness, just like love.
He that into the most inhabited places
Is capable of creating a light
So that in the middle of her longing despair
Makes her notice the light that will bring her home.
What is it, exactly?
What is this feeling that this light brings to my soul?
Hope, she thought.
Even though she had lost it long ago
When she wasn't the beast that took her place
Pain, a never ending pain
Another hope which turns into loss
Another light that disappears into nothingness with her.
She didn't have the strength to face it
She couldn't tell him she wasn't a beast after all
“I am a coward,” she thought
“I love him? Why not?”
But she escaped
Never saw him again.
She was too destroyed for that;
Yet he still loved her.
That was how someone was able to love the beast
And how she never knew it.