Found face down with a face full of mud
And a little bit of blood. The steam’ll rise slowly
As the sun reveals the scene in a guiltless manner
That abhors the innocence.
The westerly winds will pick up very soon
Carrying the odor from the woods
Prompting a search into the thick of it.
The sun shall begin to bake the skin
No moisture left
Absolutely defenseless
Her guard always tended to be down
But she liked it that way
Didn’t you?