Once, I stumbled upon a murder scene,
where lay a lady, once whole, but now victim of his wicked schemes.
He crouched on a knee like a man in love,
as he watched her eyes' vibrant hue,
fade into a hollow cave for just them two.
A macabre masterpiece as they submerged into a reverie of their own,
their bodies twined in a mangled ballet, a graceful moan.
She wore his tapestry of dread,
like a runway girl tranced in her lover's bed,
Her skin a pallor of death, painted a rueful red,
with her blood bled as he pulled out her heart thread.
Lost in their abyss of gore,
or was it their promise of forevermore?
Who the victim you ask?
Me.
