Herald of the Banshee
Death, with bony fingers creeps,
reaching for our souls
It hides its face in shadows deep,
waiting to take hold
longing to share with us
its ebony embrace
to transform our light to
a state of darkened grace.
Like a hunter, patiently,
it lingers by and by
You’ll know it has come for you,
when you hear the Banshee’s cry
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
