HER TATTERED GARMENTS LIE
BENEATH HER DEATHBED.
HER CERISE JUICE
SPLATTERED NEAR HER LIPS.
GOSH, THE DULCET SAVORING
OF HER FLUIDS IS COMPOSED OF
HER REMAINING THOUGHTS OF HOPE.
SHE WAS THE PRIZE IN
THOSE CRANE MACHINES
AT THE ARCADE.
A FLAME IGNITED IN THE
ORGAN OF HER HEAD.
THOSE IDIOTS WILL
HAVE VENGEANCE SERVED COLD
AS THEIR CAUSE OF DEMISE.
