by Nick Gisburne
Their daughter died. They buried her, of course,
But, knowing what remained of her was there,
They felt a strange malaise - regret, remorse -
And brought her back, continuing to care.
Her decomposing flesh began to stink,
And, while it did, they kept the corpse inside,
But strange, misguided minds began to think,
And forged a plan so beautiful they cried.
Upon her tiny skeleton, with clay,
They formed a splendid semblance of her face.
No trace remained of damage or decay.
They lost a daughter. This one took her place.
She gave them strength, serenity, and peace,
Or so they told the cynical police.
