Your face was changing colour as you died,
the paleness of your cheeks grew somewhat blue,
‘t was in between your death and being you
when you were truly you, not much was there to hide.
The funeral dressed up in black and grey,
some rain fell drizzling, on the coffin lid
and those who walked over the crumpling grit
to the white grave where they would have you lay.
Remembered will you be, too much in red,
your favourite colour made you look so nice:
a girl but also someone almost wise,
a pinkish dream, with dead eyes in your head.
Your bones now though, will they remain white, there,
beneath the stone? I think I do not care.
sorry about the typo, changed it!