Her Eyes Near the Shallows
The virgin under the pristine sheet,
patrols the creaking, cut, timber of time,
through the blooming roses and the sleet.
The grandiose grandfather chimes.
She used to shine her eyes near the shallows.
The young lass can only shriek her woes.
Her eyes, bright as the moon, on the gallows.
For now she bids welcome under bedding clothes.
Her arms writhe like the wind on the cliffs.
Her feet, hidden beneath the grave cold sheet.
No eye holes needed. It creeps out the stiffs.
She performs a trick when they beg for treats.
The light-as-a-cloud lass, floats just above the grass.
When the ghosts, goblins and vampires notice
they tremble, they turn pale under their first class
masks. The naysayers are given notice!
If they think, or call her a spook, or a guy, she tears
the snow white sheet off, and makes a spectacle
of her hollow cheeks, tangled hair, truant jaw. Fears,
beyond terror, make the living bully sensible.
The pale virgin roams, as long as there's day and night,
as long as seasons come and go, though she longs for sleep.
She moves by her own will - no wrong or right.
The lass longs for quiet, under soil, six feet deep.
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