She met a monster on a lonely shore
who taught her how to measure out her time
in increments increasingly sublime
till every moment had a covert score.
She rubbed her hands until the skin was raw
held captive by a faulty paradigm.
A zealot shackled to a burning shrine,
she's poised between the window and the door.
Revulsion always starts in mortal minds
when want and need cannot be reconciled
with sordid thoughts too monstrous to ignore.
But hate and love are often misaligned
and life is splendid even when it’s vile:
a joyous thing with maggots at its core.