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Behold:
those matte lavender lips;

her body, chiseled

from sandalwood; embellished

with copper chips;

her reflection

of stoned sanity,

she is; but

broken vanity.

She tiptoes

on the aisle

of death; her curves

lined by gold vinyl.

Her imperfections;

concealed, with ethereal vines;

she's translucent; donning

the silk robe of time.

She was built,

on a grim and gory night;

a spell cast in moonlight.

Some call her - love,

some call her plight.