Putrescent body lying in the emerald grass
Under a gnarled apple tree,
Arms akimbo, legs oddly splayed,
As if she'd been discarded on a whim.
Her dress is gone, pale body exposed to the heat,
Face a horrible parody of beauty,
Eyes and nose left alone in scarred ruins
As if she'd been scorched by acid
Or gnawed on by wild animals
And left naked like a sacrificial offering
To some long forgotten goddess.

Her name is whispered in a shocked voice,
Trembling hands reaching towards her.
Her legs - crippled ruins - snap and break
As the hesitant brush of a hand.
Knobby hands that wished to heal
Pull back, revolted; no eulogy is said.

The coroner comes. She's dead, he confirms.

But she looks so young, even now,
That's it doubtful if she'd ever really lived at all
Or experienced anything that mattered.
And now her beauty is gone, skin deep looks
Lost in the ravaged ruins of her face.

The coroner berates the killer
But without force or real anger.
He turns her naked body over
With brutal indifference.
Her back is perfect, unmarred by scars,
In the harsh light of the unforgiving sun
The words "Mattel" like a stark brand
Gleam out of pale flesh.

- Josh MacLeod, 2002