How dost thou describe the face of death?

Is it not how thou describe the painted lady?

Dost thou not see, pale face in the snow, waiting to steal thy soul?

Dost thou not see, a maiden, trapped for eternity in a barren land?

An ethereal being, with an unmatched voice and heart,

The painted lady sang and dance, desiring acceptance and friendship.

And yet, they hated her and cast her away, a wish unfulfilled.

They saw not an angel; they saw a demon.

Clutching a doll, feeling lonely in the real world,

The painted lady imagined a place where she had no need for fear.

A brush she drew from her soul,

And with it, she created the painted world.

Yet still, in her painted world, the maiden lacked companionship.

Still, she cried crimson tears, unable to fill a hole she had in her heart.

Thus, the painted lady wove the dolls, gateways into the Grey,

And sent them, hoping that one day they shall be found.

Misery was brought upon those souls, who stumbled upon the terrible dolls,

Sealed away they were, in the painted world forever.

They cursed the painted lady, tied her up and burned her.

And yet, she smiled, no longer alone in the painted world.