the inverted force of love, the receptacle of fear falls prey to the sorrowing tides, she is like a hag of time, a crone in a body with a use by date, lingering on chemical blood and brittle bones. she is like a sea wench, used and wretched, no purpose other than vengeance, a vendetta of rage she whittles away with attempts to hack her way into all my accounts, damage my settings and guide my calm waters into a war.
she has no weapons that can penetrate, no words that work, her curses are my cure, her spells are like kisses lost in the breeze.
she must be boiling with revenge fantasy, time passing away without her, her teeth grinding in her sleep, her twitching limbs restless and those fingers in need of a touch but turning everything to the opposite of gold, maybe just dust. 
her minions are winged monkeys unable to calm her petulant whims, desires need feeding like babies. her cries are heard throughout the area, they echo down from her fortress, down down down onto the roads and passing cars, onto the beaches and streets, into letterboxes and windows, through the doorways and into the lounge rooms of neighbours.
a team of builders working next door whisper about her, rumours float as they are lighter than air and gossiping meatheads always use force, drinking beer and toiling in the sunshine, it's may day in paradise, but the haggard body of the wicked one knows no joy, knows no peace, as her acid like temper burns her from the inside, the smoke of technology may dissipate but it leaves a trail if you look hard enough, it leads straight to you.