Elizabeth, left naked and cold, in a weed grown lot.
Pale and bloodless, such violence for her bought
immortality, her ruined body was never forgot.
All night theatres, sleeping while happy movies played.
Smiles and gentle touches and soft kisses from her paid
for meals and drinks, from men who found she never stayed.
On a beach, darkest before dawn, few stars through city glow.
Not even SoCal very warm in January, the sun sighing so low.
Death angel closed an eye on his wings, now her time to go.
She was found, broken and discarded, among tall, dry weeds.
Death angel is silent, as the butchered for their life pleads.
Remembered, but not known, beauty lost sows these morbid seeds.
for Elizabeth Short, “Black Dahlia”