She lay in her paper field of flowers, smiling foolishly. Breathing in, intoxicated with the faint aroma of perfume caught in the summer wind. Diamond daffodils and lucky clovers cradle around her crown as though a halo. Her innocent heart flutters in rhythm with the wings of a hummingbird; those fragile, seeming less vessels. Oh, how we mortals take ourselves for granted.
To a familiar face, she rises; fingertips dancing along the shore of his palm. She steps lively, ever closer to him, afraid to let him go, afraid to be lost within the ever-coming oblivion of their lives. Sand embeds itself within the crevices of her toes and still, she cares not. Within her arms is the one solitary reason she breathes. He remains to be an ever-continuing cycle, a red blood cell bringing oxygen to her brain. Without it, she would be lost unto herself and the world… completely.
Yet there lies something hidden and the more she ponders, the more she feels the ever-constant spectacle of pain, so puzzlingly numb before.
Inside his eyes lies a match; hers, a spark and so it ignites. Her flowers catch fire, charring away any beauty they once held until they are charcoal black with hunger. She continues to pore over with the full intention of burning him within her memory, a permanent seal of their life to be. He flickers, confident with his ability to caper a mind so fragile.
Thus, she becomes dizzy and falls back down again, her rose petal eyelids fasten into an everlasting reverie. The blood from her wrist trickles north, seeping through the crevices of her hands, as the flames grow higher and higher, engulfing her within its fiery tomb.
He stands watching, wearing the face of the Joker, his queen burning alive. Yet then again, she was never his queen. One belongs only after they are fully accepted. Alas, in all actuality, he had never truly held out his hand. And so, in her demise, she smolders all by her own accompaniment. As God would have it, caustically, if she had only reached out for a different hand, even now, as she dwells within a cinder, she could prosper merrily, happily behind the pearly gates of Heaven.
Yet as He would have it, she remains forever within the clutches of Lucifer, within the very fiery tomb she had once played.
There, the sprite rings around poor Rosie until ashes, ashes, it all falls down.