There is no sense of being a fiend.
The beast may not feel it is strange.
There is no sense of being a killer.
But the beast is a lonely creature.
It lives in solitude.
Not by choice or by desire,
Thrust away by those who dread it.
The beast observes it’s surroundings.
Watching, listening, longing.
It feels not difference from others
As it faces it’s sentiments alone.
But the beast has found a belle,
A creature to care for and desire.
Yet despite it’s good intentions.
The beast has entered a pyre.
A confidant may be found,
An ally perhaps,
Or perhaps even a companion.
But to the beast a lover is what this belle is not meant to be.
yet always far.
The belle may care,
But the beast is always declined.
Pain lies ahead,
Heartache among heart break.
Fiction and fantasy are lies
And the beast is no destined prince
Perhaps the beast shall find another;
One who can be with he.
Yet for now the beast shall honor his belle,
And he will simply watch and admire.
For the beast knows one thing
And one thing only in life.
All he wants is the belle to be happy
even if it causes him strife.