The Victim

Under the bridge
the youth lay
far from mortal grasp
where her nauseating perfume gathered the public
to gaze at the decapitated destiny
in tomorrow's paper
she'd get national popularity

Gone to a place
where the ritualistic knife will no more cut deep
as society's slandering tongue
that crucifies mothering daughters
congealed blood now will flow
for grief dries the root of joy

the wailing ambulance came running
the victim's corpse it had come to claim
not knowing it should have
healed her soul.