Pie

Inside the lines without direction
Are the fears of children
Weeping over the bodies of the dead
Their hearts are numb
The truth has fell away
Like flaking crust of apple pie
I like pie
She stood, in memory more than in reality
Her cloak, a coat of graveyard mist
That was yet darker than her skin
As pale as the moon, she was,
Maybe the goddess herself,
With a pearl complexion similar
To that of the death white rose
That emerges randomly in the
Hands of the curators
Raven black, or possibly darker
Were the strands of hair
Which fell to a starved waist
Eyes of emerald green
Paused upon my struggling soul
Attempting to escape
She wore gossamer threads
For her clothing
A candle, she held,
Without color
A flame of life and death
Danced upon the wick
Calling my name
I followed
To negate the effect
Of the fear
I recall my favorite thoughts
And I remember
I like pie