What could paint a prettier picture than two corpses

intertwined in a field, hand in hand as if lovers?

The woman's rotting face should wear a shy smile, as she did

in life. Those curled lips were always pleasing to a man.

As for he, a wretched scowl would be the only thing to grace him. Dissatisfied and crude. Oh, but as awful as he was,

there will be no change for him in the afterlife.

There they will remain together, a macabre scene

of wilted roses and lavender, but the air will not smell of lavender.

It will be thick will stale blood that once flowed from her heart and hint of tar, still sticky his lungs.