She wears a dress, so white.

Innocent and pure, flitting around gaily.

Flashing here and there - and over there - so bright.

Prances around, dancing daintily and daily,

Twirling through halls and balls,

This pure soul - angelic in her ways of night.

Still dancing and prancing, some imaginary ukulele.

Feeling as though she has all her might,

Yet still savouring that of all her frailty.

Tripping and flying, her grace no more.

Landing rough her face smacking the floor.

Her hands become stained with little red drops,

Over she turns, avoiding the place she flops.

The dress - once white - is soaked red,

For her innocence has fled.

(We all knew it was bound ahead)

But now her dress, red and black, matching her once pure soul,

Portraying that life has taken its toll.

No longer dancing or prancing, her dress no longer twirling in the great halls,

She weeps silently besides the walls, which have turned yellow with age.

The night disappears, letting the sun filter.

Her dress once again kilter -

Shining the snow white we know.

Don't be fooled though,

'Tis only the dress.