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Dahlia Dahlia is dead. Beautiful face whiter than cotton, eyes wide, deep blue, quizzical. Long golden hair shining upon the dark oak floor. Sweet Dahlia is dead, proof in the silver scarf tied tightly around her pretty neck, which looked thin now that she had been strangled. Long nails painted, stars on black, demure dress displaying lovely legs, sensual and bare, nine inch heels, elaborate... but that was Dahlia. She had a mind of her own. But what did it matter now? Dahlia is dead. |
Additional Notes:
Currently published on the Allpoetry website.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2015-06-26 22:59:32
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.00000
I can understand the publishing part of this work. All that beauty, yet for not. The tragedy being a woman of her own mind was stuffed out to begin with