"mired mise-en-scene" revised

Act three thought not to be,
while sitting on a park bench,
she arrived all dressed in black,
a long coat sun glassed tramp.

She greeted my jumble,
my unbeknownst wayward smile,
unable to find the word awhile,
"by," was all I could say.

Carefully making sure,
selecting to shoot at her feet,
every time she jumped near gasps,
of unclear torment traps.

Then muzzled conception,
off in the backroom perchance,
perfumed silver streaked black witch,
stolen glanced receptive bitch.

Amidst my desires to leave,
magnetic in force limbos,
awaiting the paintings of splash,
against her tortured parlours.

`Twas the end of her whines,
standing alone forever shot,
splashing again against her painting,
for her blood to spill drops.