A black sheep maybe,
or just a hopeless dreamer; but
her eyes hold no more suns,
they dead as she
on the grass.
The suburbs are replete
with corpses spent like this,
fenced in by comfort
quietly looking at the stars
hoping the heavens would drop
heroes to beat back the dead
that hell dared send.
No such luck.
How many aspirations died with her?
How much of the world
did she grin and bear while waiting
for a moment when she could find the right words
to share?
It would be an affront to the life she spent
keeping herself afloat
to leave the back of her skull, which
those monsters pried open,
peering skyward
and her orbs stuck in the loam,
so I turned her over
and then I saw this face.
Like never before, tears poured from me.
Warm tears. I tried best I could
to keep them silent,
out of respect.
This brave Juliet died with a rose in her teeth
so that when her soul finally slipped
from out her lips,
it could know one thing about her.
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