Written By John Patrick Robbins
Watercolors of nightmares cast a vision she once did understand.
In a tragedy known as time her clock had ceased to exist.
Old stories spoke to new fools telling tales in jest.
But doors closed seldom stay shut.
Passed to many and held by none bitter was the fruit
from the wicked tree.
As in shadow she sleeps a fiend of memory.
And a lover of hate.
They say the raven is but a sign a glimmer of
a puddle once filled with life.
Her thought's linger as a smoke left from the embers
of a once blazing fire.
A portrait painted in suicide's false release
rest uncertain she looms like a fog apon
dark waters so very still.
As legend replaces flesh.
The face a story cast in a deranged key.
the raven fly's blind to light.
As only in darkness others may see.
Written for the Amoung the dead contest