Saturday, October 6, 2012

The Crime Scene


Lying face up
On the bare mattress
Each thread and knot
Creates patterns
On her pale back.

Naked, every pore
On her skin fills up
With air that the table fan
Carelessly throws at her
At regular intervals.

The perfect lines of
Her lips are traced by
Droplets of blood
Sparkling. In the
Lucid moonlight.

She is cold.
Rigid. Beautiful.
Death becomes her. 


Photo courtesy: deviantart.com

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