A soft sun hovers upon white skin
soon to burn it of innocence.
Winter months went, untested, wilted,
now a fleshy wrinkle.
Like a bird of prey, claws bury to bone and round and up again
heat cooks the blood to boil, bubbles
rising like floating dead.
Without her knowing, the sun had murdered.
Into the shadows, it waits
![](https://benhenleysmith.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/A88A004E-D1D4-4D0F-B2A9-0A32C9E46433-768x1024.jpeg)