Prettier in death than
she ever was in life.
Crimson red caressed
her breasts,
covering her in the garb
of her frivolity with and
arrow adorning her like a
brooch pinned to her heart.
Her hair rooted in mud.
A declaration of her
royalty over the hearth.
Her lips painted on with
red blood curling into a smile
so vicious it made you
fall in love with spite.
Her eyes so still you could
see knowledge in the
brown ocean and
the whole world would unravel.
She wasn't dead.
She was more alive than you and I.
Last Seven Days Poems :
Image Source : Pixabay
Not sure what the underlying story of this is - which makes me wonder and trying to puzzle it out.
Good job!
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I am glad you find it interesting enough.
Thank you so much @sjennon
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Anytime!
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