Morte by Morte
Morte
Pale and alone
But never lonely
Her frizzy black hair
Around her head like a dead halo
Black skirts brush the ground
Brown grass all around
Nirvana and Rob Zombie in her ears
Black iron chair
Dead-white skin clad in dark
Macbeth in hand
Antigone at her feet
Black lips move
Speak the Lady's lines
Preserved roses around her
Beautiful corpses
No smile on her lips
But her purple eyes
Dance like Mexican skeletons
The mutant known as Death
Is happy now
