O! She was the huntress and, the crone,
Virgin mother, avatar of the moon.
With a monogrammed golden lighter,
she cooked smack in her silver spoon,
riding that White Horse to extinction,
where the sightless lead the blind.
Peace and escape, sought in oblivion.
Warmth to the flesh; numb in the mind.
The morning they found her cold in her bed.
Not a needle in the arm but, a bullet in the head.
And nobody mourned for we all well knew
Before the night she left, she had long been dead.
Once she told me It's just like flying.
She'd nod and smile while she was crying.
The body was interred sometime early in June.
Virgin mother, Huntress, avatar of the moon.
