A child weeps for the death of the scorned,
those who face torment throughout their lives
for being who they are.
Even when one is wearing a costume,
including the attire of those extolled,
the taunting grows infinite,
persistence of struggle is apparent throughout.
A child mourns for the souls of the scorned,
those whose perfumes of personalities thrived,
yet whose appearances did not live up to aristocracy,
nor to the adoration of those below.
And when they feigned the lives of upperclassmen,
chins up, shoulders back, speaking verbose,
the top-cats spit at them, forcing them
to fall even lower than gravity entails.
A child prays for the salvation of the scorned,
those whose sins go beyond compare,
who triggered the murder of dozens,
Claiming that it is not their fault
that they have been tormented,
and now their hearts conceal mercy,
and their souls face an abyss of anguish.