Woman of Wear

Dangled cold toes under hot taps
Weary bones that cry to collapse.
With night she is blessed
with peaceful request
that she rest
in it's traps.

When awoken, as sun shines brightly,
the rattled chest clenches tightly.
Warmed by a shiver
death doth order her:

Pink Gin Ballet

Am I to be poured of cold glass
and dance with death in soft pink gin?
We'll spin upon a tailor's pin
wearing the tarnish of brass.

Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass,
I tread both lines in mortal skin.
Am I to be poured of smashed glass
and dance soft with death in pink gin?

Reaper smiles sickeningly crass
rapping bone on pondering chin
with a heavy sigh of chagrin.
This moment of visit must pass.
I am poured out of cold smashed glass
while death dances soft in pink gin.