DEATH FROM WITHIN

As the days had rolled by off the cutting board,
sliced by the enormous blade of the Sun
I came to know her, she truly was empyreal flesh.

Her face seemed to hold the eye,
exotic and yet with the hometown charm
blended such that Helen's hundred ships
would forget their lost wife.
Her body, Michelangelo's unattempted creation.

But, as they say, no one is immune,
the shorings of confidence couldn't bear
her inner quakes.

One day, just another in the string of melancholy,
The House of Usher fell.