crimson splatters on the white snow,
colouring it so crudely it was almost vulgar.
deep red welts on her alabaster skin,
painting her life story.
the dead look in her large brown eyes,
the lifeless flutter of her midnight raven locks,
seem to add to her despair.
the virginal white shift framing her thin frame,
stained with the colours of rust and mud,
a futile attempt to preserve her purity.
the soft whisper of snow on her skin,
the contrast between those touches.
barefooted, she walked through the snow,
obvlious to the pain which cut through her feet.
her numbness, intensified,
by the sufferings she endured.
she finally stopped,
she found her home.
her hair and eyes contrasting among the snowy tomb.
flake by flake,
her skin and dress already one with the tomb.
minute by minute, hour by hour,
her last semblence of warmth left her.
till only left with those pair,
those pair, the last sign of life.
slowly, as if for a last glance,
those browns glazed over,
the alabaster lids slamming them shut.
and finally, she found her way home,
where honey and milk flow.
inspired by my bloody coughing fit. finally! they're good for something.