The Maiden of Frost

Her eyes are sweet with the gentle glaze of death. Roseate lips of golden ice and petite hands clasped tight. Who is she praying to, in the soft morning light? Fleeing for a haven at a fearful time. From men clad in black, riding silver spun horses. Through wayward woods and threatening mires, evading roaring thunder and growing fires, heart pounding in desperate terror, looking for sanctuary amidst a world of horror. She committed no sin, and caused hardly any din. But it was her pure flesh, silky satin skin, which drew her hunters of mortal men. Controlled by greed, people who would do any deed, her youth was prized by the deluded and inhuman. There was no acquaintance who would reach out to her, no familiar hand which would comfort her, for those dastardly men were sworn to their master, to chase the poor girl and lead her to disaster. Over sun bitten deserts, into desolate tundras, her crystal feet sore from the dreadful pursuit. Here, they come! From the left to the right, with aluminum rifles of gleaming platinum. She hid in the auroras that shone cerulean in the evening sky. But she fell from their shots, a clatter of snaps, broken by her cries. They slayed her that night and now she is free from the river of life. In death's embrace, colder than her plaster skin, she sleeps forever, the maiden of frost.