Beneath a stone that bears her name,
She lays unseen, a hidden shame.
Were she alive, they'd give her blame,
But lacks now any agency.

They hid the marks that caused her state;
Who questioned how, they did berate.
And in this matter, a clean slate
Absolved of any urgency.

She twitches now, unseen by most
The vermin live and she's a ghost.
A final meal and she's the host
Extreme of hospitality.

Some speak of those who put here here
Who did this deed? Who caused such fear?
Silence, silence! Threat is near!
This scene is pure mortality.

They say she is not dead
But I see the worms in her head.
They say she is not gone.
This is not her; she has moved on.

There are maggots for her eyes,
Her turning head? Nibbling flies.
Will I hug her? Lets have a look.
She's full of bugs - and I'm a grook!

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Glacian, in the year 994 AF.