There was a sad story,
well it was more horrible than any.
A story of a woman,
a young woman at that...
A woman who spoke kind words,
and never felt or suffered hurt.
Who was accompanied by no illness,
yet others felt a stillness.
A woman of flawless skin and eternal laughter and grace,
and what a woman she was, of fine art and gourmet taste.
From what was heard, she lived alone, in a caslte of a house
to which this day was spotless, no crumb, dust, nor mouse
A woman who could be courted by any gentlemen she'd please
but instead she remained independent, and gave a merely tease
Whose wardrobe was all of tuscan leather and smooth egyptian silk
of royal kings and queens, a descendant of their ilk
One who was blind to color, sexuality, gender, and race
and who believed the whole world to be a beautiful place
A fortress of wise words, and intellectual mind
Who read everybook in her library or any she could find
A woman whose soul could walk on water and send rockets to the moon
whose spirit floated upward like a solice flying balloon
but just last week, it is said, she lost her race with fate,
a life lived to soon and death was never late.
No offspring to bear the priceless jewels that she had left behind
not a husband of any sort for anyone to find
At the funeral, no one felt an inch of grief nor had anybody cried,
for of course they knew the cause to which the woman had died ...
She died of Perfection.