The whole world was in her hallowed hands.

Her golden tresses touched the towns with holy blood,

her platinum smile offering them protection

from the snakes and the sinners and the drunks.

All the same, she forgot herself and

eager for a meaty chunk

they sunk their daggers in.

 

The pain of the poison twisted and tortured for years on end

‘til she was headless, hollow-boned, lost in feeble fury

and it tore out her heart and left her for dead.

When will the fading flock forget?

 

And now she lies in state, blunt scythe in hand,

waiting for the world to slake her thirst.

Drowned in a deathless lake she makes her last stand,

a brazen smile rising from the foam, drawing

pictures of dead flowers in the sand all the while as

the women chant she’s home, she’s home, she’s home.