She lay in her room,

alone, no groom.

Above her headboard,

hung a cross.

in front of her

a bible stared across.

her big hands clutched the sheet,

her body lay beneath the heat.

On her hand lay a scar as big

a candle light had took its time to dig.

The big brown circles on her face fluttered shut,

in a moment she was awake again, only she wasn't.

through the window lie trees half cut

though the tree usually red, was not.

It was a nightmare she told herself

A nightmare that felt oddly real.

Again she whispered or asked to herself,

maybe she didn't have enough of her meal?

it was ok, she'd wake the next morning and read a book from the shelf.

she steadied her breath

and calmed oneself.

The candle stood before her,

a bible to the next.

she lit the candle which causes a stir.

it tipped to the side and the great flames flexed.

inhaled, the young girl collapsed with a whirr.

the point is the trees were never red.

"Sister Mallory!" the sisters yelled,

as the bible next burned to crisp upon the red flames, unread.

it wasn't a dream, It never was, her cold body smelled

and she was dead.

The tree outside the window was never red

perhaps the air she breathed in made the moment unclear,

That the great flames she consumed, were red.

The scar once marked on only her hand,

by the candle lights demand

was all over her cold body not just hand.