Jane Doe

The soft kiss of spring long past first brushed her face. Since; ravages of winters by the score had left their trace upon this bedraggled body to which no one laid a claim. All hint of where or who she was, erased when found laid gently by the church upon the hallowed ground in desperate hope that some god her soul would claim. Somewhere a lonely family lost in guilt would mourn; between the living, dead, funeral or food was torn. Another victim of our times, the papers claim.