I recall quite the face:
Livid in motion.
Whilst dead as a slate.
Enchantment seldom broken.

She pranced about her tomb,
Content as could be.
Loving her “life,”
And everything but me.

In the depth of her bloom,
I made but a sound.
Anticipate the scythe,
And destroy such a frown.

Diminish thine womb,
And all that could speak.
With this sullied knife
My passion could peak.

They recalled quite the face:
Dormant in motion.
Without a trace,
Perpetually broken.

He whom is always twixt blooms
Lost to the sea.
Destroyed such a “life,”
And all he could be.