Hurt me now.
This quick destruction
gasping in my lungs
the detailed web of widows weeping
the monarch has been hung
Her wings, they speak
their former glory
though death still clouds her face
a velvet soft among the striking
blacks of former grace
Sit still, the widow
sit still waiting,
breathing in her flesh
with jealousy, the webs that bind her
envious threads of mesh
Her beauty now
it starts to wander
from carcasse cold and clean
with drops of dew upon her coffin
the web of silver sheen
The bright compare
death is seeking
to steal the monarchs flight
It draws away the gliding dream
from the chest as black as night
One step closer
the widow's spindle
reaches twoard her form
it's so hard for her to know
this body was once warm
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Submission Name: The Monarch
