She is dressed in cerements,
sad and sullen.
Livor mortis.
Death rattles her.
Symptoms of drowning, images of ending.
Her benign thoughts slowly convulse into delusional doldrums.
Her unsung arias perpetually echo amidst a labyrinth of shrieks.
Dreamlike, but deathly.
To die while she's sleeping is such a dandy way to end her worth.
Instead of shedding blood or suturing pus or severing limbs.
Because death, even though it haunts her, can be beautiful.
Death portrays every life story's epilogue.
Death.
It puts an end and, more or less, an ellipsis.
Because death,
like everything that's tainted and thanatoid,
is unfathomable.
Dreamlike
and
deathly.
No, she is not praying for death to succumb to her.
But if she rests in peace even before her dreams are seized,
there is nothing but one question about her,
waiting to be answered.
Ultimately,
what would her
euphemism be?
Algor mortis.
