Mood:  sharp

  She sang for her supper, alone in her life, a pretty lady with no one to love. Her time in the piano bar filled the air for the lonely people who gathered there. Her song was her gift, her expression was passionate, her children were her listeners, her lover was her prayer.

  She walked in the door of her apartment that night; the burglar was startled and pulled out a knife.  He came from behind, she never knew, as  crimson colors drizzled from the blood he drew.

She lay on the floor; so very still, this lifeless body whose name was LiL.

  A soprano has died in Manhattan tonight, baring her voice to a heavenly light.  She will sing with the angels and dance on the wind, with a host full of children who will carry her in.