Closed rooms, hushed tones,

her name lived after the death of courtesy,

misplaced egos dragging it on the dirty ground,

For battling the demons of their own making.

The consonants clinging to vowels for survival,

to breathe life into her existence,

so much dirt, so many masks,

how much to annihilate, how much to preserve.

Closed rooms, hushed tones,

die with the death of foolish whims,

her name now roams wild and free,

in all her glory, in all that she is.