The Writers' Circle

There she lay, in beauty fair.
Gone from the world, which is evil's lair.
A twisted dagger held to her breast.
By her dead hand . perhaps that is best.

For now she is beyond the pain.
That caused her to be thus slain.
Her lover weeps his sorry tears.
The reason may have been him, he fears.
Her burdens he could never share.
Perhaps that is what dammed the youthful pair.

It is over now.
Dead and gone.
But he will always for her long.
He lets her go with a sorry sigh.
For Angels never ever die.