So Pale And Hurtfully Prissy

Why does she come shadow dancing up my spine? Doesn't she realize I've served a necromancer's time? Melancholy is a thistle, a rose garland in black holy her love a so-called red beating heart, a coulee, a furnace, a kiln, a blue broach of cracked enamel: Why doesn't she sliver like a feline fox, mindful? Into that toothless-fearless smiling dead cemetery who is she to be so pale and hurtfully prissy? God only deny me the light to slay this shadow the strength to live and breathe again tomorrow.