She Hangs Brightly

She was gone away and now she is gone here. Once thought the slight waif, the ethereal voice, had slipped into a warmer world, softer hues and shyer people, rising to butterfly mornings and absorbing silver afternoons... not genuinely otherworldly, you understand... but spirited away to a green meadow in among the blood orange trees: her imaginarium as penetrative lights revealed her to a black mass of frightening admirers... now... telling of a life floating, sometimes violently, Through the Devil Softly, singing perfume once the lights are dim enough... waiting to stand coldly, licking her dry lips drier and consciously emitting a tortured meeeeeeeeeeow to a new generation of rot.