In fields of mold and murky skies,

There walks a girl with tired eyes.

Her hair a tangle, unkempt and wild,

Her laughter a cackle, harsh and mild.

Her skin, like parchment, worn and pale,

Her voice a screech, a haunting wail.

She moves with grace, yet stumbles still,

Her presence brings a sense of chill.

Her breath, a stench of rot and decay,

Her touch, a shiver that won't go away.

No roses bloom where she may tread,

For love with her is surely dead.