Porcelain

There is a woman who covers her face
And who dresses like a doll;
For the children.
There is no smile under her scarlet red scarf.
Only pale white porcelain.
She walks, one step in front of the other
She does not run, she never losses pace.
As silent and subtle as black death’s grace.
Ending the life of a dear sister or a beloved brother 
And then reflecting upon the tears of the broken mother.
She is a sinner hung from an old gallows tree.
Bringing salty cracks to the heart of any father;
Like a breeze from the side of sea.
Month pass by and the children return to their laughing spree.
Her cold and flawless hands were made for embrace.
To hold you dearly and tenderly by your framed face;
And take you away to a much quieter place.
All the world knows her by many a name
But they all, in the end, ring the same.
A monster to the common man.
She’s the mortal man’s Novocain.
A promise in the winds of time.
She is the reaper;
Made out of flawless porcelain.

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