She never sleeps.
Her eyes are rimmed in shadows.
The darkest of blacks, yet somehow, they still glow.
Her hair is wet and tangled.
Damp and heavy with the tears of damned souls.
Her face is pale.
A perfect circle of ivory in the shadowy tendrils of darkness.
When her white lips part, dark whispers escape.
The ears of the living yearn for more.
She is a siren of death.
When she sings, mortal men are bewitched by the unnatural melody carried by her voice.
Their naive souls drift down to the gates of hell.
Together, still shrouded in ignorance, they clamor for entrance.
But though they journey for her, she does not come.
They are taken to punishment.
Their screams of protest echo across the black, craggy landscape of hell.
They desire to once more be filled with life, and to hear the song of a living earth.
But her pearlescent lips part anew, and yet again, they succumb to her spell.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poems
PoetrySo I recently found a poem that I scribbled down a couple years ago, did some serious editing, and discovered it actually wasn't half bad. My one friend actually thought it was so good that she found a poetry contest and made me write a submission...
