Till Death Became Her

The blood on the floor once belonged to her newborn veins,

Of someone so pure, her mom would have died to save her from her fate,

The hands that couldn't help, but trust, were grey and cold,

Her dreams lay bleeding right there on the floor,

Everything she'd hoped to be, everything she'd loved,

Lay in a shallow crimson pool of fresh blood.

The lips which used to sing sweet carols during Christmas dinners,

Now caked in dried blood, congealed and cracked,

The now browning red that trickled down her face was like,

Raindrops silently sliding down the window pane,

As the life fluid drained out of her body in garish red-brown,

Her skin took on the pallor of the corpse, the people mourned.

Like a ghost, she waited for the Angel of Death to kiss her away,

Her pale beauty now ruined by the gore of the blood,

Her blood; a red artist, coloring the white canvas of her summer dress,

The blood was the cause of all of it- she was no more,

For she thought, the sky was tragically beautiful, a graveyard of stars,

No one knew, so soon, she wanted to go there, and be a part.