Your cold, icy fingertips,
Pail palm,
Slender arm
Drift limply to the ground beside you
Where you have fallen.
The glass vial jumps from the frozen digits,
Clatters upon the floor,
Erupting into hundreds of glass shards,
The vile liquid seeping outwards
Searchin for a next victim
Should it come.
The clock chimes.
A ghostly echo calls its reply.
The night darkens.
A soul is lost,
Unless the cure be placed upon her tender lips,
The cure that cannot be bought,
Only found on the slimmest of circumstances.
Fortune, luck, fate, and love
May have lost their chance
As the life drains away.
If only there were true love's kiss.