Tragedy #93

she wore
white. a brilliant white.

with sickening ease,
and with a single,
blackish motion,
she reached in.

his eyes
pleaded to her;
she could not see
through her blood
red mask;
black eyes painted.
fragile porcelain,
yet not.

a disheartening
crack,
and it was
free; she could
hold it in her hand.

red like the mask.

a million
explosions
in his mind,
a million
doubts,
regrets,
pains,
fears,
sorrows.

she held it
before her, proud.

a sigh escaped
his lips.

she reached up,
untied a golden thread;
the mask fell free.

a hole; a gaping nothing,
a black.  spinning.
matching the one in
his chest.

drawing him
into its depths.

soon he was gone,
nothing but
a
red pool
on
a
marble floor.

an angel replaced the
mask,
tied a golden thread.

without a word,
she turned
and
walked


away.