She hoped for a better life

In her world, pleasure was rife

Her days were heralded with strife

In childhood she was scorned

Teased and thrown against the walls of jokes

She felt out of place in her skin

A camel in a dress

A dwarf on stilts

Wherever she went, she was pried upon.

Her fears rooted in disdain

Life meant only one thing to her: pain.

Turmoil, which is her name.

Men veered their advances away

Women shunned her company

And children, she was the song of their jests.

People grimaced at the mention of her name

Others disbanded when she approached.

The devil’s child, they called her

Abandoned by the woman who bore her

Denied by the man who sired her

They could not bear the canker of raising such a thing.

No home would receive her

No friend to compliment her falsely

Turmoil, her name.

They say God drives away flies from the tailless animal

But some do not attract even flies

Mocked by the mocked

She was an island of rotten vegetation

No one wanted to occupy

Hunger was her perpetual bedfellow

In her prime she leaves this perfect world.

The society is free of such a blot.

Killed by the taunts of fellow men.

Murdered by the only friends she had: pain and suffering.

Destroyed by the distress she bore.

Misery: the cloth she wore.

In death there is consolation and rest

There she eventually finds peace.

No! There is no peace for her there either.

That serenity often spoken about

She is left without.

There, under that stone she lies

Buried at night to cut all ties.

Treaded on by wicked feet.

Even in death she is tortured

A fate worse than death

Most humans are too human to be humane.

Sorrow: her other name.


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