They proclaimed she
was the “all-or-nothing” breed,
  a single lark thriving amongst the wrens.
   Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding,
    as if she had ingested the heavens and now
     they sought a means to escape.
      The slow slant of her lips
       was textured and fine,
        a simpering halt in her meadow of face.
         They sang at her alters and allow
          her put-upon face to blur through the lines,
           streaking under the curls of their incense.
            Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies,
             still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul.
              A knife was pressed close, slight
               and silver as the pulse of her heart.
                Eyes flicker wide; her
                 last breath slides through.
She is the world,
    they whisper,
  hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.