Her hair was as black and as shocking as burning tyres;
And her pastel-hued eyes that once surveyed the dawn,
Could set the world aglow;
And her skin as white as alabaster and soft like the new found snow.
Her voice, oh, her voice was as cool and clear as ice,
Probing and touching and reaching like wanting fingers.
But she left...
She had left him with a life like a ruined photograph print,
One half burned to ashes and the other half torn,
And containing only the single, voiceless image,
Of a pair of red shoes moving in the winters breeze.
Outside,
The moths spin crazily across the slate-dark road;
In the midnight a puddle was raped by the wind.
He plunges into the obscene night, taking the backroads,
His hands naked against the starry cold.
The leafless trees accosts his soul,
And the icy wind shears the skin from his body,
And all the while;
She looks down at him, there all alone;
Her body limp and swaying from her hanging tree.