Playing Gods

Laying on cream sheets, she clutched at nothing. Unlike her face, her fingers held no shape, grasping to nobody. Poisoned her features was a contorted look, frozen and statue-like, a cruel act of Kronos to her painted face; For I, Adonis, believe there was no more ethereal face than hers, adorned with rouge flush, blood, or anguish. Her complexion of ocean foam now turned to that of a rotting boar as horror took to it, skewing her from the goddess I knew. Grief could not describe this loss as it could only to my consequences; only then do anemones bloom.