3 dresses, once, all tied up tight, went walking in the grey moonlight -
1 white, 1 red, 1 velvet-black together strolled a well walked track.

The crimson crepes ran on ahead and dyed the evening air bright red,
Painting circles in the dust with grace the shade of drying rust.

The white affair, a chiffon dream, perused the lilies by a stream
And brushed the stains of clay-washed dirt from off her waist of ivory skirt.

The black lace frock, ripped here and there continued onward, unaware,
Of all the fraying in her thread. She looked away and danced instead.

The 3 passed through a bush of thorn, emerged in shreds – all cut and torn
And 1 lay down, as good as dead – a pool of soft, sharp, shimmering red.

The white, reflected in a brook, took a long, hard, hateful look
At every non-existent fold that creased her perfect, damaged mold.

The midnight black sewed up her shape with poison strands and toxic tape
Until her form was stiff and sad, without the freedom she once had.