Her looks were like salt
Too little and you begged for more
Too much and it's all you could taste
The village men swooned at her
The girls of burlesque fumed with rage
Anger bubbled through their work
How could she be this pretty?
On Cristling Lane she lived too solitary for the taste of her suitors
They lined up in search of her wonders
How had she escaped their numerous lucrative traps?
The path curved up from the dirt road
Lined with the weeds that wouldn't stop growing
Her front door askew on its hinges and front step caked with last week's mud
The ugly facade to her dwelling compared nothing to her looks
A challenge of crystallized glass greeted the guest that dare step in
A maze of twisting hallways confused any visitor
Her room was the workshop, her house the labyrinth
And her looks Ariadne’s string
They followed her scent and tuned into her beauty.
A glimpse of her in the market
A whiff of her flowery perfume drew crowds of hopefuls to her presence
Her looks dazed an audience, puzzled the birds that flew through air
Late that September evening her scream echoed through the silent night
Recognized by none, it fell on deaf ears
But she was, they said, never in pain, her fair looks put the thought under lock and key
The screams echoed again off the tavern walls,
She, they said, was asleep, as one man swore to
Her skin was purple when they found her,
Swinging from the rafters of her high sloped ceiling, noose tightened around her slender neck, stool tipped on to the ground, her feet swaying in the evening light
Eyes staring forward, into the setting sun
She was the fairest they cried
No girl as beautiful as she could be in pain
They wailed and wept over her cold body
Salt water wets one's palate for more
Salt had no purpose. Only a mask that fools the thirsty tongue.
Beauty of the body stays above the beating heart.
Screams share no beauty. Only pain that fools the lustful eye.