They found her swinging from the chandelier,
a starlit suicide, a still from a silent movie,
sepia-tinged and faded with age.
She lived her life but never loved it,
left love to those who light whole skies
with eyes that never cry
but gaze in silent awe
at the wonderful web of creation.
She kept her heart's hopes hidden,
flanked by false facades, fooling no one,
and her flagellant's scars atoned for nothing.
In death she smiled a peaceful smile,
the knowing smile of sorrow's child,
so joyless, still - yet somehow wise;
the vacant baubles of her eyes
suggested secrets - shrouded, hidden
from those that remained in the land of the living.
They cut her down with a carving knife
that sparkled and shone in the chandelier light;
so pallid and waxen was her lonely face -
not even a flicker of life still remained
in her empty shell.
No longer would she drink and tell
her tales of blood and lust and fire,
of all the men she'd once desired,
and how they'd spurned her one by one -
she'd ache no more, the time had come
to grasp the thorn and say goodbye,
to leave the rotting world behind,
so underneath the jewels so bright
she struggled slowly out of life.