Wan flesh stretched thinly
Against brittle bones,
The flower of youth much
Wilted by the bitter moans
Of winter winds and
Snows, and such;
She traipses through so dimly.
The surface so ghost-like—
Sickly, pale, anemic—
Though she makes the Madness
Seem so vivid, so scenic
Against drab backroads,
Gray towns, and the sadness
That longs, aches, to strike.
And I wonder what are
Those cracks in her skin,
Violet line-art patterned on
The wan flesh stretched thin;
They creep up to her eyes and
Within moments are gone
By a blink, a single star.
Her fingers are shaking
When she tries to speak,
Like spiders spinning nervously
A web that must be solid, not weak,
To carry the weight of several—
Thus, they weave it fervidly
In a manner quite breathtaking.
I feel as though this is incomplete...
