You were once so like the lilies you held,
Stunning. Delicately beautiful,
Never fragile in the free-flowing wind,
In which you would sway and bend.

But as you lay,
Chest cavity hollow in its still moving form,
Thorns clinging to the shirt-skins of angels,
Flowers drizzled in the dust of defeat.

Cracked tombstones of clear porcelain,
Blue-blood veins run dry under
Fragmented tiles.

The sun through skin blush
That once tinted cheek flesh,
Left alone the barren landscape,
With lack of rose bloom.

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