It was in the way her
Corpse swayed in the
Air; throttled by the
Rotting rope, a high
Branch, that decided
Her end.
He was enchanted by
The simplicity of her
Beauty; the soft, bruised
Curves, the rusted fingertips,
Her bulging eyes, her marble
Face.
He stood there for a
Million light years, drinking
In her illumination, and
In that moment, he knew,
He wanted to cut her down
From the cursed tree, sew
Her up, fix every inch of her
Cracked skin. She was like
A drought that struck a
Fertile land, and he wanted
To irrigate every pore of
Her body.
Her swaying corpse, hung
From the blackened branch; he wanted to
Bring her back to life.
So, he became her
Necromancer.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
