It is an odd sight to this crimson flow
between those marble limbs of life
once warm to a passionate lover.
Unexpected the end races to the ground
sheets soiled with the warmth of death
a painting soon to become without price.
Not too far a tear mixes with the glowing matter
sobs and cries float like a prayer but too late
the flood gates wide open to another end.
She stares in the dark at what may have been
statue of crumbling stone beneath the storm
is it pity, is it hate? She seeks a fatal blow.
Never again will the sun rise upon her silhouette
upright as ever the little girl now she has died
to the world so she may cry within her womb.