A flash of the past in stone forged,
her cold eye hosts a graveyard crow.
Midnight breezes in silk dresses emerged,
serenading a deadly lover of woe.
Dolls charm the bedroom velvet,
in the dark palace of her hypnotic notes.
Withering roses and a cat tortured quill,
in belladonna bled her but last will.
The grand requiem of an unborn deceased,
who would sleep in a coffin diseased?
Sickened thoughts the most artful draperies,
of a spirit freer than a wasteland of souls.
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To thyself be true my friend