Another poem, same story used. Crafted in Lord Byron’s style. My story, my work, just having some fun.
The day of light—a fleeting gleam—
A hollow lie, a cruel dream.
The feast, the cheer, the sunlit air,
All cloaked beneath despair’s cold snare.
A rose—its crimson bloom concealed,
A love destroyed, a wound revealed.
Its petals drip, its silence cries,
Each drop a curse that never dies.
And oh! The bonds of kinship break,
A sister’s wrath—a serpent’s wake.
Her tongue, a blade, her words do sting,
As shadows rise on viper’s wing.
The wrathful hands, they close around,
Their threats like chains, their whispers bound.
Each lie, a fire that sears the mind,
Each word—a truth to hate confined.
A child lost—a fleeting star,
Her image marred, her light afar.
The hallowed bond—betrayed and torn,
Her memory sold, her love forlorn.
The dog—a guardian, firm and true,
Denied, defiled, the path askew.
Her muzzle binds, her spirit fades,
A sacrifice in shadow’s shades.
A father’s hand, both cruel and bare,
A legacy of love’s despair.
His gaze—a storm, his touch a scar,
Each moment held, a battle mar.
A mother’s voice—a hollow song,
Her love—a mask, her truths gone wrong.
Her light—a flame, too faint, too thin,
To pierce the veil of sin within.
The holidays, a barren stone,
Each moment carved in fate alone.
No laughter stirs, no joy remains,
Each hour bound by sorrow’s chains.
And yet, the soul—though cast aside,
Doth rise and stand, though faint, defied.
For though the feast may never bloom,
The heart prevails beyond the gloom.
Who am I? 
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