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It seems she has perfected her death as it should be laid out
In a perfumed garden sweet smelling. Not on a bed of roses.
She will be laid bare like some Ionian princess, an accomplishment
For her to take on this Greek tragedy wearing the mask of death
And yet, there hangs over her the silken shroud spreading like wings
Not of an angel, but some crumbling fragments of an empire that is ended
The trees look on in amazement at this sight, this creature. Before them.
stiffen odors let out a bewildering cry as they bleed from outer pours
Covering the ground making her perfected death more easy to deal with
shedding tears now seem so long in the distance of inconsistency.
Written 24 August 2015
B. R. Walker
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