I gaze upon her perfect figure,

Pale and flawless,

Smooth like polished ivory,

Cool as frost on a winter’s morning.

Her lips are red,

Like the rose bouquet I gave her,

It was her birthday, after all.

Her dress, white and soft,

Like clouds or pure innocence—

But there’s a stillness in the fabric.

Her neck wears a purple necklace,

New, amethyst perhaps?

Clings tight,

As if to hold her here.

Her eyes are closed,

Beautiful icy eyes, sealed from the world,

Blue and scarlet light dances upon her skin—

And the wailing cry carries her away

To a sanctuary where nothing stirs.