Her legs weren't stairways
to heaven, for these ladders
were anything but safe.
Pulled fibres collected
Victims to be caught upon
her wondering lusts.
For the best poison was that
which took time to ****.
And her bite was anything
but fast acting upon her prey.
She never charged as much as
those who were below her class.
For she was scorned before.
And those who chose her beauty over
instinct, only had themselves
For her man, was a walker of corners,
catching eyes of cheap thrills.
His gift to her was a ring and a death sentence
And now she passes the gift given without consent,
to those who would choose a vine vintage soured
by gangrene grapes. They'll all taste her sweetness,
only to poisoned by its taste after swallowing it.