There's only
a skeleton's remains.
The brittle shell,
shriveled - cold.

Though you swear
against it's existance.
Covering her with
flowers and wine.

You've praded
the bones
through ancient streets -
your Mona Lisa.

When she sobbed
for release;
you chained her
to your door -
and turned on
the radio.

You've become
a tyrant -
robbing peace
from a distant shore.

Strangling her life -
creating a slow death.