Like bodies entangled in the molten lava of Pompeii, telling no tales,
Too she is silent.
Tweaking through her vessels are a few lazy blood drops,
Escaping the chaos of oxygenating the earthy remains.
All the signs of passion have bleached out of her skin,
Only a pair of lips remaining, that could kiss but not love
And flash a smile,
To glamorize the sepia tainted memory of her with brilliant colours.
She is dead.