Her name is Grace.
She trusts my hands to lead her along the afternoon skyline,
Embossed by the notion that free-will is never divine.
"A party! A party!" she concludes ecstatically
"I hope nighttime doesn't ruin my innocence!"
How dreadfully optimistic she was.
To the cottage I led her,
Trust in the palm of my hand
Like a star in the realm of the night.
I tell her to befriend nature for a little while,
While I make merry with the walls of this cottage-
Just for a little while.
So she talks to the wildflowers,
Erect with poise,
Asking the sky to protect her adolescence for one more evening.
But she begins to grow weary,
The wildflowers begin to grow mute,
The sky begins to transform to something that can no longer be recognized:
And her smile becomes something quizzical and unrefined,
So she's oddly lured:
To the house she's lured,
Through the door she's lured,
Up the stairs she's lured,
Into my grasp she's lured,
There was no party-
Her name was Grace.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a true story. It is one of the horrible homicides that the notorious serial killer Albert Fish committed in the early 20th Century. He was deeply disturbed and killed his victims so he could eat them. He showed no mercy, only pure evil. Grace was one of his victims. Rest in peace.