Unbearable Beauty In Red
The sky is liquid ink with not a star . . .
And I walk a snow covered path seeking him,
in this place hushed, silent, dark and grim.
The harsh wild wind takes my long hair,
and my red gown presses against me in the night air.
I have come willingly, without fear for my soul . . .
Even though I know he is of the undead,
I have no strength to fight those eyes deep red.
And there he stands waiting for me,
I should turn away, run away and just flee.
His dark hair is blowing in the frigid wind,
and I am falling into a great swirling whirlwind.
His skin so pale it mingles with the falling snow;
he looks through me with those eyes that glow,
and i pass tombs that stand row on row.
Then I am floating into his embrace,
and I find myself touching his beautiful face.
His dead coldness kisses my ruby lips;
then he moves to my neck and bright red drips,
I lift his hand and lick my blood off his fingertips.
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Rhyme
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2016
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