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DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE EMOTIONAL ISSUES
I was born in a land far, far away called... home. 
Not yet still-born. 
A place of iced mountain mazes, 
that were once warm, like an oasis of blessings, 
featured.
Life, overlooking question marked plains, 
where the grass is green and the wind, wild 
and unfiltered. 
Where adventure and path was half-balanced, 
teetered. 
Hung on the Horizon like the Moon in High Holy Day
               in shift phase-,shifting phase-shift, 
                         of the nurtured. 

       Still, a Banshee Howling; a Temptress-Whore, 
         lifting all protocol of the Hunt, "About Face."

            Her XXX breathe,-iced gossamer- 
                        lining a sarcophagus 
        below the succession-chain pyramid 
             of gathered slaves', witness. 
             Whipped foam in sheet-layers 
of emotional-strata denied 
   by iced Earth and Zombie Tomb.
Society will have its sheep and its shepherds.
   Voices do cry in the Wilderness.
Echoes cracked in the darkessphere. 
                     None. The less. The lesser.
An hourglass-of-open-window- shards, 
the- daylight-stained-looking-glass-
piercing-the-veil-of-dusks-Sovereign-Sentencing. 

The chill of my spine, her memory. 
A promise of reunion as she smirks back 
with puzzle-encrypted messages. 

My Home went away from me, 
to re-address ceremonies' garb.
With flinty eyes that bore witness to an empty womb.
Was it me?
The Banshee Howling: 
I lived in a house of glass 
in a place forbidden to ever be seen. To ever be.. 
The mirrors promise reflected a lonely, 
loveless woman. 
Her beauty was too perfect to be real. 
She was the one who left me. 
To search for better things on these Streets. 
To a place called none.
She was gone, but her memory lingers on. For me, the Sonic Howling. The memory of her...
A Banshee Howling; The memory of our union, 
reunion, re-toothed in cold steel. 
Of ritual, undoing, dung.

The premise : I was unborn in a far-away place 
where the grass has never been. 
Never was real. A holo sonogram. Life's hologram. The mirror's tear.
Just a shadow, of one teasing shades 
of cruelty of what could, has, not wanted. Here? 
There? No more? There there. No more tears.
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