She was white. Green in places, often blue.
Nothing could really qualify her.
She was heating up at a hectic temperature, and then freezing all.
Changing, different, she was never the same.
Twisting slowly, over and over, per habit.
She appeared tired, aging, twisting without a halt
Her skin emerged, fighting not to sink in the depth.
Struggling, circled by her torturers.
Four of them, who once benefited her
Each his own pace, dancing around her
Two cursed couples.
On each side, losing a bit of themself
And she, poor naive, was struck by this scourge.
Prisoner of this eternal round, having created it by mistake
She should never have been, but can not turn back.
Innocent, doomed to pay the price of her existence.