Among the Dead Contest
The fog curves around her ankles in the dark abyss.
She is the profit of the death, a sightly succubus.
Treading softly on this never ending plain.
She is the morphine, that takes away all your pain.
Her legacy is the giver of utmost fear.
Once you see her, its too late, you disappear.
The low-lying mist hovers on the ground with ominous glows.
She carries a gun, and shoots at all the crows.
Because someone once said,
the crow carries the soul of the dead.
Drifting by and looking at each tombstone,
she thinks about being forever unknown.
Her black dress flows like when a pandemic starts.
Her eyes can pierce even the purest of hearts.
Her beauty is a curse all its own.
So magnificent, but she'll always be alone.
~Chris Matt, for A Rambling Poet's, Among the Dead contest.
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