Her face a flame drawing moths in, light
a soft caress of flawless skin – rays
like fingertips stroke a statue;
a mute song to beauty (so they said).
And as cold as stone. A look
closer and the sheen dulls: the eyes
may be large, but dark pools promise
depths suitors seek not. So lips
quirk to keep the spell alive.
History was a different matter. Then,
velvet liquidity of sense took her;
then, did she feel and respond.
Blood spilled, pulse stilled.
A corpse, a statue: difference
only in the flesh.
Neither with a heart.