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
Copyright © Shelley Moore | Year Posted 2015
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