Burning and rusting,
violating her crème skin,
a scent of cinnamon perfume,
sinks deep as the bone encrusted and vague,
rots on stone beneath an ivory moon.
So her body lies,
with dirt upon her naked eye,
'longside a soft prudent ear,
our lady still stands in blood of gold,
that coats her breast in crimson so sheer.

The seams of France,
above the brick of Bastille,
daubed in thick fervors of hate,
intrude her sacred chamber void of air,
only to quicken the breath of her fate.
As the early ringing bell sounds morning,
he is vacant of the royal sheets,
she mounts the affair with quick precision,
of who's lips will brush her young cheek.

Graceful dances possess her muscle,
sophistication laces her chest,
as she births laughs as thick as fog,
that corrodes one's boiling flesh.
Dirty sophistication,
oblivious danger,
embodies this blinded beast,
they demand to seize this cursed rule,
in the justice of the guillotine.

So there, I see,
our pale lady lies,
abreast dead tears of wisdom,
here,
upon the guillotine,
lies our fated lady in crimson.

 
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