A Crimson crypt perches atop heightened hummocks,

bearing grievous gargoyles that fester on skobeloffskies

Their Torturous talons clutch against sturdy stones they guard; their eyes peep preciously downwards the diabolical dirt

Their Withering wings sway against the wary winds, their barbarous bodies muscle down on the stained stones below

Then, Amidst the flock of decurved demons lies a cold child, weeping the abrupt absence of her meaningful mother

Her Feral fingers crept between the leeward letterings, her lips kindly kissed the riotous roses

Her Flowering face, now showered by dreary drips, her enate eyes enclosed against the seething storm approaching

Her Hartworth heirloom strained out from inside her tattered trench coat, her hollow hands resting the time-honored trinket near the slab of rock

“In Loving Memory of Frances Hartworth. Beloved Sister, Wife & Mother. October 21st, 1918-to-September 2nd, 1945.”

Weakly Whispered the little lass, cradling her deformed doll in her archangel arms  

“I miss you, Mommy.”

The Graceless girl added before eyeballing the wailful Winglings