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.