slight, silvered
shaking and servile hands
willow wrists and
fragile fingers
pale arms laced in
paler scars

cheekbones; two quills
no wit or will
resignment, shattered hate
and anger’s absence
haunt black and broken eyes
ghosts of identity

an afterthought
a dandelion wing
a wisp of tattered silk, or
cobweb curtains

what pretty locks she had
that, shorn from sickly scalp,
fell about shrunken feet
to ankles pooled in tears, and now
those pale, frail tresses

up to her knees, her waist, her neck
in misery’s remains
what angels left to rot
oh, she was lovely once