Beaten, Swollen Chest; Rape to Detest

A beaten breast is not something that was foretold.
A night of peril was not for seen,
a scarred body of proportions missing,
was not a consequence or development,
but only a mothers paranoia resting in the back of her mind.

Little Susan Stein was sweet a long time,
Till flirting and hormones came in line.
Then came she the design of a crime,
one in which that I wish could never been my rhyme.

To words it is sullen and sick to repeat,
as a best friend and co-worker could become meat.
A man of sick predictions so was seeking her line,
wanting and wishing, he wanted her wine; her blood line.

Silly Susan Stein knew how to drink wine.
She knew to the level that seduction could go,
she felt her arms wave as she gave.
And as she undressed, she was his craze.

His cravings and desires were swept away,
as bliss and dreams were fulfilled that way,
He suddenly lost cravings and gave up that day.

By now in success and in lies,
Silly Susan Stein wanted more lies to buy,
ones that made her cry; ones by which to die.

By this a black pan was drawn.
The pan was Iron, it was dark and crisp, ruined by a dark cook's dish.
She was dragged into a peril. Into unknown.
Both by him and her, they knew not what was to come.
For Silly Susan Stein died.

And in this gory tale I needed to write,
I resign in this horrible rhyme.

[Forgive me if this depresses or upsets you. I had to get this out of my system when she died. And now I had to share it with, at least, someone. I miss Susan so much. But be assured She is with God now.]

God Bless ;')
[I enjoi Criticism]