A hazy room full of people, darkness drenched
The temperature sub-zero and a blood soaked bed
Arms reach out to gently lift her chin and tip back
Her beautiful head.
The lead smell pierces her shallow mind,
Her senses crawling for clear perception
But thoughts can't connect, and only the smell
Reaches her head.
No need to cry my darling, self-pity jests,
The torture is over and last is the end.
A fraction of death-panic and forlornness remains,
As does the unimaginable pain.
Clawing at her throat, the decanter flows
Molten liquid claws inside her neck,
The last thought before frenzied insanity grips,
Is doom of mortal betrayal.
Her body choking, embraced by death
While the undertaker whistles a tune,
And the people scream with laughter,
He digs her shallow grave.
