Runaway

poor little Darla

stuck in a war that was already fought

a chandelier mine shattered

for she was bought by a man

a man who poured hope in her glass

and killed her with doubt

a man who toasted to happiness

Oh, why must my bitter cold soul devour my box of warmth, 
my murderous, snow-white hair pointing north?
The hikers that dare set foot on my icy ridges,
they shall burn you like scolding, lava-like bridges.

Don't forget about your home
where you've learned wrong from right and have grown.
Don't forget about your friends
who will love you until the very end. 
Don't forget about your spitfire soul