The Marble Mirror

A figure found in sallow stone
that plays the mask to dust and bone.
It wound in shroud, cut coarse as death:
not once this breast heaved time to breath
or fingers weaved with fondest touch.
No smile to linger ... such
its cold, eternal hush:
the tears that streak on marble blush
are false, but dank sweat-stain.
Arms fold her virtue as in pain
(pretense to penance, hollow shame).

Worn by the will of wearing ill
unbending, last fast frozen still.
What futile hope this carven bride
whose craven life but to deride
and gain all envy ... bleed the poor:
now fed the Devil's noisome maw.
How stern her chill
worms well his fill
the very face defaced
and vestments vested of all grace.
Left long with only death to chase.

So soiled by gore this eyeless hag
lays waiting on her bedded slab.
If dissected would we find
the slightest trace, a sign
that here, a soul encased 'in sate'
could ever to forgiveness wake?
Or will the probing chisel crack
a heart misshaped of ebon black?
No, leave her close in marble mask
lest the mirror of her mock at last
steal out and evil flout!