She sighed,
inhaling the icy-crisp autumn air,
gazing downward, unseeing, at the frozen, rotting decay
that once resembled a spring morning's blossom.
her hands;
clasped with a calm, bbitter sorrow -
the way of a woman in prayer -
began to quiver, softly at fisr before growing into
a violent, convulsive anguish.
her hair;
swept back in a perfect, unrealistic swoop of
ravens' feathers and auburn flame, a tapestry
woven by angels - of gods, if such a flawless creature could and did exist.
her face;
stoic, formally cold and unfeeling, expressed no shattered heart, not broken love for those benath the soil, but instead displayed a twisted, dystopian grimmace as she began to cackle.
Brimming
with howls of laughter, she threw her head back, if only for a moment before again accheiving emotional composure, enjoyed - sinfully - the defunct.
and she cringed, -
oh, how she fliched! - with such a volatile sickness
as she heard the cries
from beneath the garden gates, those childlike voices,
sometimes imploring sometimes taunting.
her muscles
tensed, tightening, forcing her devilish grin
into the mundane mold of plastic solitude and despair.
