the threads in her head

1.
do you hear...?
the cackling sound
of your very own skin
turning, to crisp among those dove-grey ashes...
the incessant drip
plonk, plonk,
plonk.
I hear it. I see it - blood,
splattering into scattered rubies of tears.
so red, so red, such a deep deep red.
and hear, hear,
the whistling slice of the air
piercing your very heart
with the swiftness of death.

2.
those dove-grey ashes fly
floating lightly about the air.
some still red-hot, glowing
before fading into an ashy grey.
some darker, some lighter, white as snow
and yet others charred around the edges
all curled up.
So pretty, so very pretty,
so delicate in their curves.
and oh the way they yield so
to the lightest of touch
crumbling into little pieces.
sing, my pretty, sing a song
to the low sweet tune of death.