Lovely Lady or Sir, sit so quiet, demure, almost playfully you flirt, between two worlds, none preferred. Precariously you dance, between violence and romance, and you don't even stand a chance, bent so low in guarded stance.
The evidence, none exists, photographs, still as death, wide mouthed grins of sorrow, silent frozen pain and horror, smiles none would guess, behind the scenes the tears just shed, if an image of whats inside could beam, oh how that photograph would scream.
No, the image is their God, savior to you Oh Lovely Dog, you recognize your relief, when the image is closely mis-perceived. You've enabled the misrepresentation, you handled the misinterpretation, and your reward is short-lived peace, now lay your mind to rest at ease.
Your reward is normalcy, a brief and brilliant break from war, and oh repentant love not beyond repair, you may just hope, or may despair. The hair on your skin is slightly raised when you're sure too much time's expired, bracing for the cry of war, wondering how you'll survive the morrow.
You are in it, survival mode, and even fantasy disallows, that your freedom might unfold because of the mental torture it would arouse.
All before you is a hope that they might see the damage done, ashamed of all the hate, you pray their final act of love, would be a key to set you free, to walk away unscathed, to dance toward a future rid of the anguish they inlaid.
