The serial killer stepped into her life, 
before she knew he was there.
He was an appealing ‘son of a bitch’
insinuating his goodwill with flair.
He wined her; dined her; danced her; 
gave her the time of her life.
A good thing, cause that’s what he was taking
the day he called her wife.

Her appeal had been individuality, 
like all predecessors - she shone,
like a bright evening star - 
a privilege his insistence had won.
But, a wife conjures preconceived notions, 
not viewed in candlelight.
As he detracted the stars only attributes, 
now dim star faded into night:

Her innocuous thoughts to him were stupidity,
better no thought to think.
He pummeled her mind with his ideals - 
her mind was on the brink,
of insanity - where she questioned nothing
not, even her value of self.
That was all done for her - 
a star was no diamond therefore, not wealth.

He tipped the scale in his favour, 
sending her over the edge.
As shooting star crashed over a cliff 
with no saving grace, not even a hedge.
To break her fall, albeit her spirit - 
this assassin pointed the gun,
firing up a storm which choked her; 
just another dust ball blocking the sun.

Shot into space she fragmented - 
the invisible killers, untouchable success.
The serial killer dispersed her identity 
& her ability to impress.
To this day she still glitters - 
in the distant night sky rim.
Dust to dust as she tries to gather a twinkle 
and unsuccessfully fades to dim.

21 December 1998
Robyn Anne Pace