It was a Thursday when her fate was met,
The day she leaned over the parapet.
Facing the wind, the eve of her demise
Was not as beautiful as where she lies,
Dreaming with her broken halcyon wings,
Surrounded by ichor and the blood of kings.
Queenly in essence and in description,
She asks for no such fame or inscription,
Wanting all traces to just be erased,
So she can still dream of happier days.
Without the tendencies that plagued her mind,
Perhaps the reaper would have been more kind.
Alas, there is no more time to borrow,
The clock has struck and stopped at her sorrow.