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.

No more.

Blood spilled, pulse stilled.

A corpse, a statue: difference

only in the flesh.

Neither with a heart.