As the beetles creep

Across her pale-blue skin

The burgundy locks

Cascading over shoulders so thin

Mouth ajar, eyes wide

Her frame sprawled in the leaves

This sleep took her by surprise

On a cold, autumn eve

She stares as if about to speak

Yet not even a breath can be heard

Silent angel, which someone seeks

Cannot utter a single word

As people gawk and someone cries

Her body is lifted and carried

Murder, maybe, or even suicide

The cause of her death could vary

Paler-blue and frigid flesh

She awaits a quick dissection

The morgue is quiet and quite grotesque

With the others in line for inspection

As a blade is held and in its place

At her neck, no chance of its slip

The mortician's blood ran from his face

As his hand was stopped by an icy-cold grip