Snapshot of Sorrow

Lines upon the face read into the misery inside,
The tale of which has gone untold,
Seasons have faded into the mysterious void,
The snapshot in the decrepit hand is all that’s left.

Each story upon the old-spun tapestry,
Is unique among themselves alone,
Sorrow unwritten amidst the poor ones soul,
Fate played a hand in this self-written pain.

Such a sad story to behold in anyone’s eyes,
Was it ever actually real or all just pretend,
To witness such an occasion of hatred,
Can one come to terms with their putrid fate?

Frailty was her name as she was snatched in the night,
Woe is the name of this story unfolding,
Pulled from a time of frolic and music,
Into the fright of the man in the faceless mask.

Slowly tortured into tiny pieces of who the former person was,
Merely a shell of who was and now is,
Pain and agony only compared to the worst of it all,
No person could know what the pain was like.

Sorrow of the torture turned into the murder,
As she lay bleeding and alone the story was told,
Found upon a scrap of cloth with no name,
This snapshot of sorrow contained and preserved.