Dead Glory

A beauty,
they called her,
She was white
as snow,
There wasn't a single man,
whom
she didn't know,
A thousand women,
she'd feasted upon,
For her skin so tender,
so silky,
as dawn.
But who was to know
that her skin
white as snow?
Was a crimson deal
with the dead,
6 feel below?
And now,
the men knew her
as the only woman,
Who remained alive,
When the rest
were no more.