She Swings

She swings back and forth.
The breeze pushing her along.  
Noose tightened,
Her neck twisted into a slow putrid swing.
  
It's quite despairing to feel,
with sorrowful confidence in how something ends.
From the timely fading consciousness to
the rotting of the skin.
  
Just like the death displayed here.
Grimly swaying through the trees.
A dove of love whose life became
that stench upon the breeze.
  
No vengeance will requite the fallen,
and dearly shan't her soul depart.
This carcass serves but as a message,
and a ghoulish work of art.
  
Upon her neck was laced the blood-soaked sign.
Her very own necklace of life,
and why it had to end.  
  
"She lay with foreign soldiers."
For that, her choice was made.
A choice of life not made her own,
and death would time the day.
  
Now here she swings...
  
Before me isn't a corpse, only the harrowing truth.
"Existence is disposable to opposing men at war."