To you, sincerely you.

I'll paint you a pretty picture but allow me to paint it with a twist,

her life was a facade and sweet death was her wish.

The moment had come, no time for delay,

her story was coming to an end and so was this play.

There was no pretty picture to paint, the canvas was already bloody.

a tapestry of wounds, a narrative dark and muddy.

So, her wish came true, and the darkness was bliss,
but lo and behold, death was naught, and morning came amiss.

How could she have expected this unforeseen twist?

---------------------------------------------------

Her death, the voice in her head and an awakening- which existed first, and which would unfold as the final act?