Alone she kneels on the ice,

As liquid falls in groups of trice.

The piercing wind consumes her in it’s cold,

But it’s not the reason her emotions are so bold.

Echoes of a sound come from the icy hilltop,

Drip, drip, drop.

 

Clear and crimson circles in the snow appear,

The perfect blend of vivid and austere.

Her tears aren’t for the pain,

They are for the love she never gained.

She does this for the suffering to stop,

Drip, drip, slop.

 

A silvery blade in her hand,

Causes the blood to paint the snow that’s so bland.

Everyone tried to help her,

Except the one who could make her as she were.

Now her blood and emotions are in a glop,

Drip, drip, sob.

 

Her skin turns to the color of the snow,

And her sobbing begins to slow.

Her gray-blue eyes are hidden by her eyelids,

And her breathing is dull like her life is.

Her smile signifies her last yopp,

Drip, drip, plop.

 

 

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