knew. She saw ribbons and gold buttons
and heard them say he died a hero.
They stood, flanked by plantation pillars.
Her eyes were perpetually glossy
and they stared into the past and future.
Surface tension kept them reflective,
as she sat dust-coated in lace filtered light.
So sad was she...the kind of misery
that makes one desperate for more sadness
as if it was a drug. She listened to the most
mournful songs, danced with death.
She hired the local painter, who quietly
watched her as he captured her grief
on canvas. She was statuesque, a glacier,
mouth faintly twitching and skin translucent.
He felt his brush sliding methodically.
As the paint grew thick she faded
while posing on crimson velvet. Her soul
leaked out, her breath a frigid breeze.
The artist knew that it was his best work,
and the most dangerous. For all who gazed
upon the woman in the painting were sucked
down and drowned in the abyss of her eyes.
